The Shadow Isle (14 page)

“Why not let her marry, then, and go live among the pigs and dogs on the mainland?” Mara said. “Since she does seem to like them so much.”

Angmar swung her head around and glared. Mara started to speak, but Angmar got in before her, letting fly with a stream of Dwarvish. Although Laz couldn’t understand a word, he could hear anger easily enough. Mara, in turn, snarled out a few sullen words, also in Dwarvish, which only made Angmar angrier. With a muttered excuse that neither woman bothered to acknowledge, Laz got up and slunk away.

He made his way through the apple trees to the lakeshore. Out behind the manse, he’d found a tiny beach that had become his favorite spot on the island. A willow tree, pruned into a canopy, overhung a stone bench. When he sat down, he could watch the water through the slender branches, just budding with green. Across the rippled lake rose the dark, stone-streaked hills of Alban—whatever or wherever that name might have meant.

Over the past few weeks, as his hands had continued to heal, and his strength continued to build, Laz had attempted simple dweomer workings, only to fail at all of them. All around the island rose a water veil of etheric force that made scrying beyond it impossible. He’d expected that. Another difference in the feel of the etheric, however, troubled him far more.

Back home in the Northlands, he’d sensed the etheric plane as a constant presence, hovering close to the physical, or perhaps even merging into the physical in some unclear way. He’d always been able to exploit that sense of proximity, transferring his consciousness and even his physical substance back and forth between them as easily as he might pour water from one bowl to another. Sidro had often remarked on his ability to shift levels of consciousness or shapechange as easily as most men could change the subject of a conversation. Her amazement at his skill had fed his confidence, which in turn had fed his abilities.

Here in Alban, he felt a rift or a discontinuity, as he decided to call it, between the two planes. Rising to the etheric to work dweomer—to say nothing of the astral plane beyond—cost him an enormous expenditure of energy and a careful attention to all the details of the dweomer craft. So far, he’d failed to elevate his consciousness to the higher planes for more than a few brief moments. He’d not managed to transform his physical body at all. Every attempt brought the dead, ugly, certain feeling that in this place he would never succeed.

And Sidro, of course, was far away.
I’m only half the man I was,
he thought,
without her.
His one hope lay in the possibility that it was Alban—or Alban’s world in general—that was to blame, not his damaged self. But would he ever see the Northlands again? Hearing Mara speak of her odd sensation of hope had roused hope in him, but only briefly, a mere spark of light in the night that lived inside him these days, or so he thought of it, a constant gloom of self-appraisal and loneliness.

If Sisi were here,
he berated himself,
she’d tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. And she’d be right.
It was such a tedious old story, the man who didn’t realize how much he loved a woman until he’d lost her. If there was anything Laz hated, it was tedious old stories, such as the little moral lessons his mother had been so fond of preaching to her brood of children and slaves. He got up from the bench and started back to the manse to see if Mara and Angmar had stopped arguing.

Mara, however, met him on the path. She walked up to him without looking him in the face, and her pretty mouth, normally so soft, stuck out in a pout.

“What’s wrong?” Laz said.

“Mam does say there be a need on me to apologize to you,” Mara said, “for I did say mean things about my sister in front of you.”

“Well, you weren’t saying them about me, so no apology needed.”

Mara looked up and smiled with the life flashing back into her eyes, a touch of harmless malice. Briefly he was tempted to kiss her, but he remembered her warning: I wear this body like you wear a shirt. Did she feel a closeness to the etheric? Did she feel now what he’d once felt, the ease of slipping back and forth between the flesh and the etheric? He would have to teach her far more lore before he could even discuss the subject with her. He was also afraid, he realized, afraid that if she did feel a continuity with the etheric, then Alban’s world was much like his own, and that fault lay deep within himself, not outside in the world around him.

“You do look troubled, Tirn,” Mara said.

“Oh, it’s just my hands. They ache, even in the sun.”

“We’d best go in, and I’ll brew up some herbwater to treat them.”

Laz allowed himself a sigh at the pain ahead of him. It would divert his mind from memories of Sidro, he realized, and as he followed Mara back to the manse, he was almost cheerful at the thought.

"Sidro?” Pir said in the Gel da’Thae language. "What’s wrong?”

"Nothing.” Sidro pushed out a bright smile. “Just thinking.”

“About Laz?”

She hesitated, unsure of how to answer, and concentrated on tying off a thread on her needlework. He waited, as patient as always, standing with his hands shoved into his brigga pockets. She was sitting outside their tent to take advantage of the clear light from the spring sun while she embroidered a horse-head design on the sleeve of the new tunic she was making for him. With a sigh he hunkered down in front of her.

“If you don’t want to tell me,” Pir said, “that’s well, um, understandable. ”

If Laz had been the one to ask, he would have goaded her into telling him exactly what she’d been thinking, she realized.

“I was just wondering if I’d ever see Laz again,” Sidro said. “That’s all.”

“Ah. I do wonder that myself.” He glanced at her embroidery. “That’s a splendid little horse. I didn’t know you could draw pictures. ”

“I can’t. One of the other women did it for me. Now all I have to do is fill it in.”

He smiled, nodding, then stood back up.

“Pir?” she said. “Are you happy here among the Westfolk?”

“I don’t know. The horses the prince gave me are splendid, but well, um, er, they’re not our people, are they? The People themselves, I mean.”

“That’s true, but frankly, I’m glad of it. I’ll never be a slave again as long as I stay here.”

“Ah.” He considered this in his slow, careful way. “I hadn’t thought of that. But then, I wouldn’t, would I?”

“You were free born, after all.”

“Yes. Huh. I’ll have to think about that.”

“I’m coming to like it here, you see, so I wondered.”

“Oh. I’ll think about that, too.” He smiled at her, then turned and walked off through the tents.

Had he been Laz, Sidro would have worried for hours about his reaction to her statement. With Pir, she knew that he would tell her in his own time, if indeed, his reaction concerned her at all.

Why do I care if Laz returns or not?
She sat with her sewing in her lap for some while, that afternoon, amazed at her own thought.

By the time Rori returned, the royal alar had traveled a long way north. The spring days had grown longer and warmer, and as the land dried out and the grass sprang up, the horses and sheep had easier walking and better fodder, which meant that their herders could keep them moving for more hours a day.

Since Dallandra had been scrying for him, she saw Rori nearing the camp before he landed, and she met him out in the open meadows, far away from the horses and other animals, who had no way of knowing that this enormous predator had a human soul—not that they would have trusted it if they had.

“I thought Pir was going to train your horses to ignore dragons,” Rori said by way of greeting.

“He is,” Dallandra said, “but he needs somewhat with your scent upon it. He’d like you to lair upon old blankets for a while. It shouldn’t take long for them to soak up the wyrm odor.”

“Not with the way I stink! I’ll do it gladly. Ye gods, it’s been years since I’ve slept upon a blanket.” Rori turned his head and contemplated his scaly stomach. “Not that I’ll be able to feel the difference, I suppose. Here, untie this pouch, will you? I’m sick of the thing banging against me.”

“You’ve got the horn, then?”

“What’s left of it. Enj sends his thanks for any aid you can give him and his people on the island. He’s longing to see them again. Oh, and by the by, I’ve bad news to give our prince. I saw Horsekin up in the Northlands when I was flying back.” He rumbled with brief laughter. “I gave them and their horses a good scare, but it wasn’t enough to send them home again.”

Dallandra felt as if she might faint. She steadied herself quickly, but her hands still shook enough to make untying the pouch difficult. At last she got it free.

“I’ll fetch Dar right now,” she said, “and give this to Val while I’m about it. Will you wait?”

“Of course. And have Pir bring me out those blankets. I can lair here tonight and sleep on them.”

When Daralanteriel went out to speak with the dragon, Calonderiel went with him. Dallandra gave Valandario the pouch with the horn, then sat down with her colleague to examine the remains. As well as the pouch, Enj had wrapped them in straw to cushion them during the long flight. Once freed of the wrapping, the horn looked a pitiful thing, all crushed and folded upon itself, filthy with tarnish. Yet as Val held it in her hands, it shone with a glimmer of silver, just for a brief moment before returning to its old color. Valandario caught her breath with a gasp.

“There’s dweomer upon it, all right,” Val said. “A very great dweomer.”

“It seems to have recognized you for what you are,” Dallandra said. “That gives me hope. It’ll work with you rather than against you.”

“Yes. I wish I could go to Haen Marn’s old location. I’d like to meet Enj, too.”

“Rori saw Horsekin prowling around—”

“I heard you tell Dar. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” Val paused for a grin. “Not that stupid, anyway.”

“Good. I’ll be glad to help with the horn if you need me, but you’re the gem master. I’m assuming that silver objects count as gems, anyway.”

“I think they might. The poor thing! It’s certainly been ill-treated somehow. I wonder if this damage is part of the dweomer that sent the island away, or if Alshandra got hold of it. I feel like I’m holding an ill child or suchlike.” Val paused to wipe a tear from her eye. When she laid the damp finger onto the metal, a fleck of tarnish disappeared with a hiss. Val flinched and nearly dropped the horn.

“They might count as gems?” Dallandra said. “The question’s been answered, in my opinion. This one most assuredly does.”

“Well, I’ve seen enough sorrow in my life to work myself up into a fit of weeping,” Val said. “If nothing else, I can clean it off.”

All that night the silver dragon slept upon a spread of old blankets. In the morning, when Dallandra went out to say farewell, she found Pir gathering up the thick wool cloths. They most definitely stank of wyrm.

“You’re not going to keep those in your tent, are you?” Dalla said. “I pity poor Sidro if you are.”

“I’ll be wrapping them in somewhat else,” Pir said. “But it will do us no good if they wash clean in the rain.”

“What will you do with them?”

“Put one on the ground, then calm the horses whilst they have the smell of it in their nostrils.” He turned to the dragon. “My thanks, Rori.”

“You’re welcome,” the dragon said. “I’ll be back to report to Prince Dar, and I can renew the scent then.”

“Very well, then,” Dallandra said. “Maybe we’ll have some good news for you by the time you return.”

Rori stayed silent, looking off at the distant horizon.

“Is something wrong?” Dallandra said.

“Naught, naught. It’s just that at moments I wonder if I do want to be a man again. Wouldn’t it be deserting my post?”

“Your what?”

“Because of the Horsekin.” Rori swung his head around to look at her. “I can do a fair bit more damage in this form than I could as a single rider, if I’d even be fit enough to fight, that is. Ye gods, I’ll be an old man!”

“That’s certainly true. But why do you think it’s your duty to go on fighting? It’s not like there isn’t a willing army between us and the Horsekin.”

“That’s true, too. Oh, I don’t know, Dalla! Here, we can talk more later.” Rori turned away and waddled off.

“We should talk more now.” Dallandra ran after him. “Do you want to be transformed or not? You’re asking us to do a huge working—”

“I know.” He hesitated, but only for a brief moment. “There’s the matter of my son, you see.” With a rustle as loud as a storm he began spreading his wings, an enormous stretch of skin and bone that shoved her back and away.

“Your son?” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “What? Rori, wait!”

He bunched his muscles and sprang into the air. The rush of air from his wingbeats knocked her over into the grass—a lot of very soft grass, fortunately. He’d flown off, heading north, by the time that Pir had helped Dallandra pick herself up.

“You bastard!” She shouted it after the dragon.

“Here now!” Pir said. “It be a hard choice for a soul like that to make.”

“Oh, I know!” Dallandra said. “But he’s still a bastard.”

Dallandra returned to camp to find Calonderiel pacing back and forth in front of their tent. A pair of purple gnomes swaggered just behind him, mimicking his every move. When he saw her, he stopped and crossed his arms over his chest with a scowl. The gnomes did the same.

“What is it?” Dallandra said.

“Rori tells me you’re going to try to turn him back.”

“If he wants us to, yes.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“What? Why not? Because of the Horsekin?”

“Naught of the sort! Don’t you remember what happened to Evandar? Working that transformation killed him. I don’t want you dead from working it backward or whatever it is you dweomerfolk do with spells.”

Astounded, Dallandra could only stare at him. His scowl deepened. With a visible effort he looked away, only to notice the pair of mocking gnomes. When he swore at them, they vanished.

“That’s not what killed Evandar, exactly,” Dallandra said. “For one thing, he wasn’t truly alive.”