The Shadow Isle (17 page)

“And mine to meet you.” Berwynna dropped him a curtsy. “Ofttimes Mam did speak of you, but I wondered if ever we would meet.”

“Well, now we have.” Enj glanced around. “I take it our other sister’s up in the manse?”

“She is, and Mara’s her name.” Angmar slipped her arm through his and gave him a significant look. “Marnmara, that be.”

The Lady of the Isle reborn, then!
Enj wondered exactly how to greet a grandmother who was now your younger sister, then decided that questions of courtesy didn’t truly matter on a day as happy as this one. Arm in arm, they walked up to the manse with Berwynna trailing after.

In the great hall the others waited for them—Mic, old Otho, Lonna, a lass so like Berwynna that Enj knew she must be his other sister, and two young men, red-haired Dougie, enormously tall, and tattooed Tirn with his scarred and malformed hands. As the introductions went round, Lonna and Mic both wept.

“Ye gods!” Otho snarled. “There’s no need for everyone to carry on so! For all we know this wretched island’s got some evil plan in mind.”

“Ah, Otho!” Enj said. “I take it your sunny mood means you’re glad to be home.”

Otho, a frail whitebeard now, shook a feeble fist in his direction, then suddenly smiled. Lonna wiped her eyes on the hem of her apron, and Berwynna took her handkerchief out of her kirtle.

“Here, Uncle Mic,” she said.

Mic snuffled, smiled at her, and wiped his eyes vigorously.

“Dougie, well met to you, too,” Enj said.

Dougie gave him a blank look, then shrugged, holding up empty palms.

“He’s deaf?” Enj murmured to Berwynna.

“No!” She laughed at him. “He doesn’t speak Dwarvish, and he doesn’t know much Deverrian, either, that’s all. I’ll translate for him.”

“Tirn does speak Deverrian, though,” Marnmara said, “and Dougie had best learn more of it, so I say we all use it this day.”

“I agree, but first,” Enj spoke in Dwarvish, “since the outlanders can’t understand us, what’s all this about ‘uncle’ Mic?”

“He’s Mother’s half brother,” Berwynna said. “Didn’t you know?”

Enj turned to Mic in some exasperation.

“I didn’t want to tell you when I was here before,” Mic said, “because Rhodry Maelwaedd was with us at the time, and it was none of his affair—”

“Hah!” Otho broke in. “I should think not, him a cursed elf and all!”

Everyone laughed, perhaps at the predictability of the insult, perhaps in general good feeling. At length everyone sat down at the long head table, and Lonna and Berwynna bustled off to bring tankards and flagons of ale. Enj sat at Angmar’s right hand, and Marnmara took the seat to her left. The others sat randomly toward the far end, though Enj noticed Dougie keeping the seat next to him clear. While Berwynna poured ale for the men, Enj leaned close to his mother.

“I see the twins favor Rhodry Maelwaedd mightily,” Enj said, too softly for the lasses to hear, “but they look too young to be his children.”

“What? Of course they be his!” Angmar spoke normally. “How long think you that we’ve been gone in Alban?”

“More than forty years, Mam, getting on to fifty, truly.”

“Ye gods!” Mic put in. “To us it seemed a bare seventeen years.”

Enj shook his head to show his bafflement. He shouldn’t be surprised by anything that happened on or to Haen Marn, he supposed.

“Time be like water,” Marnmara leaned forward into the conversation. “Rivers flow at many different speeds.”

This pronouncement struck Enj as more a riddle than an explanation. He had a long swallow of ale to help clear his mind. Haen Marn’s good dark brew, and the sight of the great hall around him—he’d worry about the Rivers of Time some other day, he decided, and enjoy this one.

“It’s been so long here, then,” Angmar said suddenly. “Ai! I doubt me if my Rhodry still walks the earth.”

“Um, well.” Enj hesitated, then decided that blurting the news out would be best. “He does, Mam, but not as you remember him. He ran afoul of great dweomer, and it turned him into a dragon.”

Angmar stared, her mouth half-open. Berwynna translated for Dougie, who made a strange gesture with one hand, describing what appeared to be a cross in midair in front of him. Marnmara, however, nodded as if she were merely thinking things over.

“Not the silver wyrm?” Tirn leaned forward as if to ensure that he’d heard a-right.

“The very one,” Enj said. “Mam, my heart aches for you. He’s been changed into a dragon, a real dragon, huge, wings, the lot. But there’s hope. Some of the Westfolk dweomerworkers are trying to turn him back, but it seems to be a blasted hard job.”

“Mayhap I can help them,” Marnmara said. “After all, he be my father.”

Angmar started to speak, then let out a sigh that carried half the woe in the world. She leaned her head against the back of her chair.

“Mam?” Enj said in Dwarvish. “Are you going to faint?”

Angmar shook her head no. Her eyes gazed far across the room and her lips moved briefly, as if in prayer. Marnmara got to her feet.

“Mam, Mam!” she said. “The shock’s been too much for you, hasn’t it? Here, Dougie, help me! Let’s get her up to her chamber.”

The Albanwr, a giant by Enj’s standards, rose and joined her. He easily picked up the exhausted Angmar and carried her away up the stairs with her two daughters trailing along behind. The men left behind merely looked at one another for a long space of time; then Mic broke the spell by burying his nose in his tankard and drinking deep.

“Goes to show,” Otho snarled. “This is what happens when you have dealings with a wretched elf. Turning into dragons! Hah!”

“Now, now,” Enj said, “it’s not somewhat that happens every day. He’s the only man of the Westfolk I ever heard of who grew wings.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Otho snorted again. “You never know what they’ll do if they get some crazed thought in their minds.”

Enj decided that arguing the point was hopeless. Fortunately, Tirn changed the subject.

“The silver wyrm hates me,” Tirn remarked. “And I don’t even know why. Are you saying that he’s got Westfolk blood in his veins?”

“Cursed deep in them, apparently,” Mic said. “With all that dragon covering them.”

“True spoken.” Tirn flashed him a grin. “But I’d best be gone ere he arrives here.”

“Well, I don’t know if or when he’ll arrive,” Enj said. “There’s more trouble brewing with the Horsekin, you see, off to the east of Dwarveholt. He’s sworn to help protect the border.”

“Yet more war?” Tirn’s grin disappeared.

“Mayhap. No one’s sure if these raiders are a feint or a sign of worse to come.”

“I see. I was hoping that the burning of Zakh Gral would put an end to it, but obviously I was being an optimistic fool. Enj, I have Gel da’Thae blood, but truly, I hope the Deverry men beat the Horsekin back.” Tirn spoke quietly but firmly. “They represent the worst of my kind.”

“So we’ve learned,” Enj said. “Unfortunately.”

In her usual brisk way, Marnmara took charge of her mother. She helped her lie down on her bed, then opened the windows of the bedchamber to let in fresh air and sunlight.

“I’ll go get some herbs,” Marnmara said. “Dougie, you may go. Wynni, stay here until I get back!”

“As if I’d leave!” Berwynna said.

Marnmara bustled out as if she hadn’t heard her sister. Dougie gave Berwynna a comforting pat on the shoulder, then left the chamber. Berwynna sat down next to her mother and clasped Angmar’s hand in both of hers. Angmar sighed and lay limply, her eyes half-closed.

“I’ve had many a hard slap in my life from the Fates,” Angmar whispered in Dwarvish, “but this has to be the cruelest. I swear, Wynni, it would have been easier to hear that your father was dead than this.”

“Well, maybe those dweomerworkers can turn him back.” Berwynna did her best to sound optimistic. “After all, if magic made him a dragon, it should be able to unmake him. Shouldn’t it?”

“I’ve no idea, none.” Angmar let her eyes close, then opened them again. “My poor darlings! It must be just as hard on you.”

“Not truly. We never knew him like you did. Don’t vex your heart about us, Mam. You’ve got enough grief to bear as it is.”

“My thanks.”

“Besides, in a way it’s rather splendid, thinking I have a dragon for a father. Do you think mayhap he was always a dragon and could just take human form? If that’s so, then maybe he can change himself back and be with you again.”

“Wynni!” Marnmara came striding into the chamber, her arms full of sacks and supplies. “Don’t prattle! You’ll only upset her more.”

“Oh, my loves!” Angmar said. “Please, not another of your squabbles!”

For her mother’s sake, and hers alone, Berwynna held her tongue, even when Marnmara smirked at her—at least, she took her sister’s smile as a smirk, not a conciliation. Still, her thoughts were her own, and she found herself thinking about the strange book that Dougie had brought to Haen Marn. She’d heard Tirn tell Mara that it seemed to have somewhat to do with dragons.
What if there’s a spell in it?
She’d heard them mention dweomer, too.

“I’ll brew you up a restorative,” Marnmara said to Angmar.

“My thanks,” Angmar said, “but I doubt me if aught will help. My time must be upon me. There’s not much reason left to me to live, now that we’re home, and I know that I’ll never see your father again. At least you children will have your proper place and your proper destiny now.”

“Don’t talk like that, Mam, please?” Berwynna said. “Enj thought the Westfolk could help. Who are the Westfolk, anyway?”

“Ask Enj,” Angmar said. “I’m so weary in my very soul, and there’s somewhat important I needs must tell Marnmara. Help me sit up, Wynni.”

Berwynna piled pillows between Angmar and the bedstead, then helped her mother lounge comfortably against them. At the hearth Marnmara was lighting a small fire. Once it caught, she placed an iron kettle of water next to the flames to heat.

“Mam?” Marnmara turned around to face the bed. “You’re not about to die. I’d know it if you were, and you’re not, so please don’t talk about dying.”

“I know your heart must ache, though,” Berwynna said. “Mine would in your place.”

Angmar smiled, but she looked only at Marnmara. “Come here, child, and listen.”

With a backward glance at the kettle, Marnmara walked over.

“Now that we’re home,” Angmar began, “I shall tell you an important thing. There was no use in worrying you with it when we were so far away. I’ve told you many a time that you were born to be the Lady of this isle, though I doubt me if you know all of what it means. The Lady before you did bear no daughter to take her place when her time came upon her, only a son, and him I did marry. But our firstborn daughter was poor little Avain, and never could she take on such a task. Then my husband died. Your father found me, or perhaps the gods sent him. Either way, at last the isle had its trueborn Lady once again.”

What about me?
Berwynna thought.
I suppose I’m just here by chance or such, for all they care!

“It were a grave thing if the isle should have no Lady,” Angmar went on. “So one day you’ll have to marry in your turn, that you may mother a daughter.”

“But I don’t want to!” Marnmara laid a hand over her mouth.

“That matters not,” Angmar said. “You’ll have to marry a man of the Mountain Folk, not merely any man. That’s the rule of the isle, that the Lady must marry a Man of Earth and bear him children. Had I been the true Lady, I never could have taken your father to my bed, but I wasn’t, and the times were desperate.”

Marnmara had gone pale. She lowered the hand from her mouth, looked at her mother for a long moment, then got up with a toss of her head. She hurried back to the hearth and knelt down to add herbs to the water in the iron kettle.
We’re home,
Berwynna thought,
so maybe I can marry Dougie now, since I obviously don’t matter to the stupid island.
She was about to ask her mother when Marnmara left the hearth and rejoined them.

“I don’t want to marry,” Marnmara said. “Surely I should be able to adopt a girl child instead.”

“You most certainly can’t.” Angmar sat up a little straighter. “Wynni, run along now. Go ask Enj your questions, because truly, you must have many of them.”

Berwynna considered protesting, but her mother and sister were glaring at each other in a way she recognized all too well.
They’ll argue the whole wretched afternoon,
she thought. With a sigh she left the chamber and went downstairs. After all, she reminded herself, she had a brother to get to know, an unexpected gift from the gods.

Fortunately Enj considered her a gift, as well. He was more than glad to answer her questions, explaining who the Westfolk were, and the Horsekin, recounting the story of how her father had been turned into a dragon in the far-off city of Cerr Cawnen in order to save his life after a traitorous woman had wounded him to the point of death. Tirn talked as well, telling her of the recent wars between his civilized folk and the wild Horsekin of the far north.

Berwynna did her best to divert some of this flood of information Dougie’s way, translating when she could, explaining strange names when she couldn’t. He listened, but his stunned eyes and slack mouth revealed a shock almost as great as her mother’s. Finally he roused himself sufficiently to ask a question, which she translated for him.

“This sorcerer who turned my father into a dragon?” Berwynna asked Enj. “Was his name Evandar?”

“It was indeed,” Enj said. “Fancy our Albanwr knowing that!”

At the news Dougie groaned and buried his face in both huge hands. “I might have known,” he said to her. “Truly, I might have known.”

Not long after Angmar and Marnmara came downstairs. Angmar looked much restored, but Berwynna was pleased to notice that Marnmara’s usual composure had disappeared. Lady of the Isle or not, she kicked a chair out of her way as she passed it, yelled at her cats to get off the table where they were lounging, and strode out of the great hall without looking anyone’s way. Tirn got up and followed her out with the cats trailing after.
What’s this?
Berwynna thought.
Don’t tell me she’s got an admirer in that poor beggar of a man! Huh! Serve her right!