The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (5 page)

“No doubt,” Dallandra said. “And I’m glad it’s past.”

Carra shuddered, then began to tell her, in great detail, how much Elessi was nursing. Although she listened, Dallandra was thinking more about Carra’s fear. Had she died in childbed to end her last life, perhaps? Such a thing might well carry over as an irrational fear—not, of course, that Carra’s fear lacked basis. Human women did die in childbirth often enough. A reincarnating soul carried very little from life to life, but terror, like obsessive love, had a way of being remembered. As, of course, did a talent for the dweomer—she found herself wondering about the Raven Woman. It was possible that this mysterious shapechanger was remembering, dimly and imperfectly, magical training from her last life.

Later that night Dallandra learned more about her enemy. She was getting ready for bed when she heard a tap at her chamber door. Before she could call out a query, Evandar walked in, or more precisely, he walked through the shut and barred door and oozed into the room like a ghost. Dallandra yelped.

“I wish you wouldn’t do things like that!” she snapped. “You give me such a turn!”

“My apologies, my love. I did knock. I’m trying to learn the customs of this country.”

He took her into his arms and kissed her. His skin, the touch of his lips and hands, felt oddly cool and smooth, as if he were made of silk rather than flesh.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” Dallandra said. “I wish you could stay a while.”

“The dun’s too full of iron, weapons and nails both, or I’d spend the night with you. When all this trouble is done, my love, we’ll go back to my country, you and I.” He paused to kiss her. “And we’ll share our love again.”

“That will be splendid.” With a sigh she let go of him. “From now on, can’t we meet in the Gatelands? I’d rather spare you pain if I could.”

“My thanks, and the meadows of sleep will do us well enough for ordinary news. But something a bit more urgent brings me here tonight.” He paused for effect. “I’ve tracked down the Raven Woman. She’s sheltering in Cerr Cawnen.”

“Cerr Cawnen? Jahdo’s city?”

“The very one. I found her when I was hunting my brother.”

“Shaetano?”

“The very one, and still working mischief. He’s escaped me, but I think I know who let him out of the prison I made for him.”

“The Raven Woman.” Dallandra heard her own voice sag in sudden weariness.

“And once again, the very one, my love. Her name, by the by, is Raena. I did find that tidbit for you. Now, you told me that you think her little skilled in dweomer, and I agree. Her magic’s like one of those rain spouts that men make to carry water, and she’s naught but the barrel underneath.”

“And Shaetano’s willing to be the downpour, is he?”

“Just that. No doubt he’s flattered to be worshipped as if he were one of the gods. He’ll lend her power to make mischief, anyway, mischief being his own true calling. So I thought I’d tell you where I was bound. After all, you have good reason to hate him yourself.”

“Hate him? I don’t, truly.”

“What? Why not? After the way he treated you—stealing you away, binding you, holding you up to mockery in that wretched wooden cage—how can you not hate him?”

He asked in all seriousness, and she considered with the seriousness that he deserved in his answer.

“Well, he frightens me, and when I think of the things he did, I’m angry still, but it’s not the same as hate. Does he truly understand the evil he works, and why it’s an evil thing?”

“I’ve no idea, and I care even less. He’s crossed me and injured you, and that’s enough for me.”

“And so you’ll be hunting him? If you can find him and stop him, then Raena’s dweomer should dry up and quickly, too.”

“Good. Let us hope. I’ll find him, sooner or later, never you fear, but I do have a few other errands to run as well.” Evandar turned away and smiled, an oddly sly quirk of his mouth. “I have a scheme afoot, you see.”

“Oh ye gods, what now? Evandar, you know I love you, but those schemes of yours! They always get out of hand, they always hurt people, and I wish—”

“Hush!” He held up one hand flat for silence. “I’ve been thinking. Have I not learned from you, my love, about thinking and the passing of Time? Well, when Time passes, and my people are born into the world of flesh and death, just as our Elessi’s been born, won’t they need a place to go?”

“A what?”

“A place of their own, and I shall say no more about it.” He turned back and grinned. “It’s a surprise and a riddle, and here’s a clue: when the moon rises again you’ll see.”

Dallandra hesitated on the edge of snarling at him. Once he defined something as a riddle, he would never tell the answer, no matter how much she prodded or swore or wheedled.

“Oh very well,” she said with a sigh. “And how soon will this moon of yours rise?”

“I have no idea. I’ve been weaving this scheme for a long time, truly, ever since I asked the man named Maddyn for his rose ring—hundreds of your years ago now, isn’t it?”

“It is. Wait—that’s the ring Rhodry used to have, the one with the dragon’s name graved on it.”

“It is, but I’ll speak no more about it now.” Evandar paused for a lazy grin; he knew full well how his riddles irritated her. “But to the matter at hand, my love, Shaetano’s clever, so that will take this strange thing, Time, as well. He’ll hide from me, but sooner or later, he’ll have to appear to his worshipper over in Cerr Cawnen. When he does, I’ll be close by.” All at once he tossed his head in a spasm of pain. “Iron! Wretched demon-spawn metal!”

Evandar took one step toward the window and disappeared. She saw nothing, not a fading or a trembling of him—one moment he was there; the next he was not. Dallandra shuddered once, but only once. She’d got used to him and his ways, over the years they’d been lovers, hundreds of years, in fact, as men reckon time.

The tiny room smelled of ancient smoke and recent dust. The fetid air hung cold and close around the two people standing, bundled in cloaks, with their backs to the wide crack between stones that served as its door.

“It be best not to light a candle or suchlike in here,” Verrarc whispered. “Not enough air.”

“There’s no need on us for one,” Raena said. “Watch, my love. See what I did learn, this past year or two.”

He could hear her draw a deep breath; then she began to chant the same few words—he thought they might be Gel da’Thae—over and over. Up at the corner of the web ceiling a silver light gleamed, then spread and brightened. Spiders dashed from her dweomer.

“Ye gods,” Verrarc whispered.

“Gods, indeed, my love. This be a gift from the gods I do serve, the true gods.” Raena turned, glancing around the room. “What place be this? It must be old, truly old.”

“No one knows. When I was a boy, I did find all the secret places of Citadel. Some few I asked the elders about, but most, like this one, I did keep for my own.”

She nodded, looking round her. Near the ceiling and all around the room ran a line of triangles and circles, crudely carved into the stone. Verrarc had never seen it so clearly; when he had hidden in this half-buried chamber as a child, the only light had been a dim glow from the entrance.

“I feel despair here,” Raena spoke abruptly. “And old fear.”

“Do you? We’d best be about our business. I don’t want anyone wondering where we might be and come looking for us. What was this thing you were going to show me? Or is it the light?”

“Not just the light. Here.”

When she knelt on the dirty floor, he joined her. She flung both hands into the air and began a chant of different words, vibrated from deep in her throat and spat out like a challenge. In answer the silver light shrank and collected itself into a glowing sphere, about the size of an armload of hay, that hung above and before them. When Raena tossed her head, the hood of her cloak fell back. Her eyes were shut, sweat oozed down her face, and her long black hair seemed to gleam and flutter in the unnatural light. Verrarc felt himself turn cold as the sphere of light began to stretch itself into a long cylinder.

Within the silvery pillar something—no, someone—was forming. At first it seemed only a trick of the light, a shape like a drift of smoke caught in a sunbeam, but gradually it solidified and turned mostly human. When the figure stepped free of the silver pillar, Verrarc could see that there was more than a touch of the fox about him. Red fur tufted his ears and ran in a brushy roach from his low forehead back over his skull and down his neck. Under their red-tufted brows, his eyes gleamed black and bright. Each of his fingers ended in a sharp black claw.

“I am the Lord of Havoc, ruler of the powers of strife and tumult.” His voice boomed and echoed so loudly that Verrarc feared someone in the town above would be hearing him. “Why have you summoned me, O my priestess?”

“To beg my lord’s favor,” Raena whispered. “I have brought another who would worship thee.”

“Then you have summoned well, little one. I shall—”

All at once Lord Havoc hesitated, staring at something behind his two worshippers. When Verrarc twisted around to look, he saw nothing, but Havoc yelped. He flung himself backward into the pillar and disappeared, leaving behind him the stink of fox. The light that formed the pillar began to break up. Although Raena chanted to drive it back, the light stubbornly spread out and clung to the walls, as faded and torn as an old curtain. With a gasp for breath she fell silent.

“Rae, forgive me,” Verrarc said. “But a doubt lies upon me that he be any sort of god at all. A fox spirit, more like, such as do live in the woods.”

“Animal spirits are weak little things!” She turned on him with a snarl. “How could he nourish my dweomer if he were some woodland imp? I tell you, I’ve seen him do great things, Verro, truly great, and he does shower favor upon me.”

Verrarc got up, dusting off the heavy cloth wrappings round his legs.

“You saw the light, didn’t you?” Raena snapped.

“I did.” He straightened up, then gave her his hand and helped her clamber to her feet. “Here! You do be as pale as he was!”

She very nearly collapsed into his arms. He struggled with the folds of his cloak and hers, finally got a supporting arm around her, and helped her stand. All around them the silver light was fading.

“It be needful to get you back to the house,” Verrarc said.

He squeezed out of the room first to the dark tunnel beyond, then helped her through. The tunnel twisted and wound, the air grew fresher and colder, and about thirty feet along they came to its entrance, an opening in a stone wall. Beyond they could see snow and tumbled blocks of stone overgrown with leafless shrubs. Verrarc helped her climb out, then scrabbled after to the wan light of a dying day.

They were standing on the peak of Citadel, the sharp hill island that rose in the center of Loc Vaed and the town of Cerr Cawnen. Between the trees that grew among and around the ruins of the old building, brought down in an earthquake centuries ago, Verrarc could see down the steep slope of the island, where public buildings and the houses of the few wealthy families clung to the rocks and the twisting streets. The blue-green lake itself, fed by volcanic springs, lay misted with steam in the icy air. Beyond, at the lake’s edge, the town proper sprawled in the shallows—houses and shops built on pilings and crannogs in a welter of roofs and little boats. Beyond them, marking out the boundary of Cerr Cawnen, stood a circle of stone walls, built around timber supports to make them sway, not shatter, in the earth tremors that struck the town now and again.

They were looking roughly west, and the lazy sun was sinking into a haze of brilliant gold. Thanks to Loc Vaed’s heat, Cerr Cawnen itself lay free of snow, but beyond the town the first fall of the season turned pink and gold in answer to the setting sun. Here and there in the distance stood a copse, dark against the snow, or a farmer’s hut, barely visible in the drifts, with a feather of smoke rising from its chimney.

“It do be lovely up here, the long view,” Verrarc said.

“Someday soon, my love, I’ll be showing you a view so long that all this,” Raena paused to wave a contemptuous hand, “will look like a dungheap.”

“Oh, will you now?”

“I will. The things that I have seen, my love, did stagger my mind and my heart, just from the seeing of them. The world be a grand place, when you get yourself beyond the Rhiddaer.”

“No doubt.” Verrarc hesitated. “And just where have you been learning all these secrets?”

“You’ll know in good time.” She shivered and drew the cloak more tightly about her. “It be needful for me to consult with Lord Havoc, to see what I may be telling you.”

He looked at her sharply. Her mouth was set in a stubborn twist.

“Let’s get back to the house,” he said. “I want to see you warm, and I’ve got a few matters to attend to before the settling of the night.”

Dera had a rheum in her chest. Huddled in her cloak, she sat close to the hearth fire and sipped a mug of herb brew.

“Gwira left me a packet of botanicals,” Niffa said. “I can make more.”

Her mother merely nodded. She was a small woman, short and thin, and now she looked as frail as a child, hunched over her mug. Her once-blond hair hung mostly grey around her lined face.

“You be vexing yourself about our Jahdo, Mam. I can see it by the way you look at the fire.”

Dera nodded again. Niffa knelt down beside her and laid a hand on her arm.

“I do know it in my heart that he’ll be coming home to us safe, Mam. Truly I do. I did see it, nay, I have seen it many a time in my true dreaming.”

“Hush. You mayn’t speak about those things so plain, like.”

“There’s naught here but us two.”

“Still, it frightens me. And what would our townsfolk do, if they began thinking you could dream true and see deaths in their faces?”

“Well, true spoken. I’ll hold my tongue.”

Dera sighed, then coughed so hard she spasmed. Niffa grabbed a handful of straw from the floor and held it up for her mother to spit into, then tossed the wad into the fire.

“My thanks,” Dera whispered. “And will I be here when our Jahdo comes home?”

It took Niffa a moment to understand what her mother was asking.