The Shadow Isle (29 page)

At last the stairs led to a small open space and a broad corridor, running off to their right. The walls here, glowing blue, rippled with light. As they walked past, the glow brightened, then faded, only to brighten again. Berwynna could make out some sort of algae or mold, growing like fur across the worked stone. Ahead of them she saw stronger light, fungal blue laced with yellow candlelight, coming from a wide room.

Inside, a procession had assembled: six men carrying a bier, covered with a heavily embroidered coverlet, a small group of mourners standing behind, Envoy Kov among them, and at its head a woman. Set into niches on the wall, candles glowed.

“That woman is my mother,” Mic whispered. “Her name’s Miccala. You’ll walk with her in front.”

Vron handed her the basket of fungus. Mic patted her on the shoulder, then turned and walked away with his father to take their places behind the bier. Watching Mic leave her side made Berwynna shiver with fear, even though she felt like a fool for doing so. Miccala came forward and smiled at her. She was a pleasant-looking woman, somewhat stout, with a streak of gray in her brown hair and a strong jaw. She wore a long dress of pale gray, clasped at the waist by a belt set with irregular chunks of onyx.

“Welcome to the Halls of the Dead.” She had a soft voice, tinged at the moment with sadness. “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet at a happier time.”

“So am I,” Berwynna said. “What would you like me to do?”

“Just carry that basket of light and follow me. The ceremony’s a simple one, but it requires at least two women.”

The Halls of the Dead.
The name made Berwynna shiver once again, but she decided that she had no reason to let the fear show. She held the glowing basket high and steadily as she followed Miccala. The funeral procession fell in behind them as they made their way down one last short stairway to level ground and a level path. Above them she saw the rough stone of a crudely cut tunnel.

“We go to the Hall of Bone,” Miccala called out.

The men behind them sang one low note, almost a growl in the echoing chamber.

As they turned onto the path, distantly Berwynna heard a murmur that at first she mistook for chanting. As they came closer, she realized that she was hearing the river, plunging down over its cataract somewhere far ahead. The cold air became damp, as clammy with silence as with water. Miccala called out, a long high note that hovered on the edge of song, and led the procession into a vast cavern. On the far side, several hundred yards away, the river ran, blue with phosphorescence.

By its light Berwynna could see a stone forest. Misshapen cones of rock rose from the floor and strove to touch their twins hanging from the ceiling. Pale tan and white, they glittered with the water that dripped through the limestone. In and among them stood round platforms where the cones had been cut away about three feet from the ground. On each platform lay a skeleton, curled like a baby in the womb. From above, the lime-tinged water dripped, relentless.

“They shall become part of the mountain forever,” Miccala said. “Soon enough the soft flesh rots away, leaving the hard bones. Slowly the stone covers the bones. They meld with the rock, become rock. Such is the destiny of our folk.”

“I see,” Berwynna whispered. “Born of the mountains, and to the mountains we’ll come in the end.”

“Just so.” Miccala smiled at her. “You learn fast, child.”

The men carried the bier to one of the platforms and laid it down on the ground nearby. Miccala pulled back the coverlet to reveal Otho’s naked body, lying on its side, his limbs curled and his hands tucked under his cheek. He looked so peaceful, with all his bitterness and complaints stilled at last, that Berwynna felt her grief lighten. Two of the men picked him up and laid him onto the platform. Miccala carefully rearranged his body to fit.

“Sleep well,” Miccala said. “You are home forever now.”

Everyone raised their arms into the air and stood for a long moment, praying, perhaps, to the gods whose names Berwynna had yet to learn.

“We shall remember our kinsman until we join him here,” Miccala said. “For now we shall leave him in peace.” Yet she laid a light hand on Berwynna’s arm to keep her at her side.

The men picked up the bier and trooped out. Mic lingered, caught Berwynna’s attention, and murmured, “We’ll wait outside.” He hurried off after his father.

“I have something to show you,” Miccala said. “If you’d not mind.”

“Not at all,” Berwynna said. “This is fascinating.”

Miccala took the basket of light and led the way into the approximate center of the cavern. As they passed the various platforms, Berwynna noticed skeletons, some covered with a thin film of translucent rock, others, more recently placed, merely spotted here and there. It would take a long time, she supposed, for the dripping sea-rock to do its work. Miccala stopped at a pair of very different platforms, rectangular and cut out of ordinary stone.

Each on its own platform, two skeletons lay full-length on their backs, their ghostly hands crossed over their chests. The travertine had completely covered them to a depth of perhaps an inch, making it difficult to pick out details. In the blue light from the mosses and the river, they seemed to be encased in smoke turned solid.

“Those aren’t Mountain Folk,” Berwynna said.

“No, they aren’t,” Miccala said. “Some say they’re of the race known as the Children of Air, the ones that Deverry men call the Westfolk. Others say that they’re Deverry men. I don’t know which is correct.”

“They must have been here a very long time.”

“Well over a thousand years. The founders discovered them when our people first came to Lin Serr.” Miccala held up her basket and moved it this way and that to make the light fall upon the rib cage of one of the skeletons. “When I was a child, you could still see a gold bird with spread wings lying under the blanket of rock. It must have been some sort of ornament around the person’s neck. I can’t make it out now, though. I was a child a very long time ago.” She lowered the basket with a sigh. “Let us return to the land of the living.”

At the entranceway they paused to put out the candles. Mic and Vron accompanied Berwynna the entire way up, but Miccala left them, turning down one of the side tunnels after they’d passed several landings. By the time they climbed the long stairways back up to the entrance hall, Berwynna was panting for breath, and her legs seemed to have turned to mud under her. Fortunately, Dougie was waiting by the inlaid maze. He picked her up and carried her down the corridor to their chamber.

After Otho’s funeral, Kov invited Mic and Enj to his quarters to partake of what he called a "restorative,” a golden liquor less potent than the dark brown stuff he’d served the night before. In his small reception chamber stood a stone bench with a wooden back and a welter of cushions for guests. After he set out the bottle and stoups, he himself took the only chair. In the dim bluish light from baskets of fungi, the liquor shone green. They toasted each other with the stoups, and each had a long sip.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” Enj spoke first. “I promised Rori that I’d go find him if the island returned, you see. Little Berwynna’s bound and determined to go with me, too. He’s her father, after all.” He paused, thinking. “Well, he fathered her when he was still a man. I don’t suppose his being a dragon now would change that.”

“Legally he’d still have paternity,” Kov said. “In my opinion, anyway. I suppose we could ask Garin if you’d like to make sure of that.”

“No, no, your opinion’s good enough for me. You’ve studied the laws. I haven’t.” Enj swirled the liquor in his stoup. “I wish my sister had stayed safely at home, but she didn’t, and so here we are. I’d best start searching, but ye gods, he could be anywhere!”

Mic leaned forward in his chair. “Enj, I’ve been thinking. I know your heart longs to return to Haen Marn. I’m minded to go west with Aethel’s caravan to see about those veins of opal-bearing rock. From what he told me, the city of Cerr Cawnen’s offering a nice bit of money for an assessment. I can keep an eye out for Rori easily enough. Why don’t I take on your vow? If we find him, I’ll tell him about the island’s return, just like you promised.”

Enj nearly wept. He roughly wiped his eyes on his sleeve before he spoke. “A thousand thanks,” Enj said. “I’ll be in your debt for that.”

“And doubtless someday I’ll call that debt in.” Mic grinned at him. “But we’ll worry about it then.”

“Going with the caravan’s a wise decision,” Kov said. “You and Berwynna will be safer that way. The Northlands are wild and rough, worse even than down in Deverry.”

“Have you ever traveled across them?” Mic said.

“No, I’ve never had reason to.” Kov hesitated, shocked at the wild idea that was forming, seemingly of its own will, in his mind. “But you know, I wouldn’t mind having a chat with the silver wyrm myself. Enj, that story you told about the other Mountain Folk to the south—it’s been nagging at me ever since. I consulted Garin about it, and we both wonder if they’re indeed the Lost Ones from the old city. If Rori can give me some idea of where he saw them, I just might gather a few good men and go down into Deverry to search for them.”

“It would be worth doing, all right,” Mic said.

Enj nodded his agreement and had another sip of liquor.
Besides
, Kov thought,
there’s Berwynna
. She had her giant, who’d be traveling with her, but what if she tired of that Roundear lout?

“Of course,” Kov went on, “my going depends on Garin’s permission. He’s my master in my craft.”

Enj accompanied Kov when he went to see Garin, the head envoy. Over the winter, his beard had gone completely gray, and he’d taken to spending the vast majority of his time in his quarters. They found him sitting at a writing table littered with parchments, plates bearing scraps of food, and ancient maps, which he was consulting by the light of two thick candles. He put his pen down and listened while Kov explained his idea. Much to Kov’s relief, his master in the guild approved.

“I’ll be interested to hear what the dragon can tell you.” Garin tapped a finger on the map spread out in front of him. “Besides, we know next to nothing about the country between us and Cerr Cawnen. Oh, the traders have told us a fair bit about monsters in the rivers and suchlike.” He rolled his eyes. “But what we need, with those maggot-born Horsekin riding around up there, is solid information. Can they feed their horses on the way to Lin Serr? What’s the rock like? Can we build traps and tunnels? That sort of information, not fancy tales.”

“Just so,” Kov said. “I should take something to write upon and take notes.”

“Good idea.” Garin turned to Enj. “Will you carry letters back to Haen Marn for me?”

“Gladly,” Enj said. “In return, may I borrow one of your mules? It can haul the empty coracles upriver, and I’ll get him back to you eventually.”

“Yes, certainly. You see, I can’t go to Haen Marn myself, even though I should go welcome your kin home. I’m going to be consulting with a representative of the Deverrian high king about establishing a formal border between Dwarveholt and his highness’ territory.”

“It’s about time,” Enj put in. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been trouble between us already. An unmarked border’s a dangerous border.”

“So they always say,” Kov said. “I suppose we can thank the Horsekin threat for the lack of trouble. This is no time for allies to start bickering among themselves.”

“Just so.” Garin sighed and looked away. “I hate traveling, these days, but Voran specifically asked for me, so I can’t get out of it. We’ll meet in Gwingedd.”

“Voran himself?” Enj said. “I would have thought a herald would—”

“This matter is too grave to leave to the heralds,” Garin interrupted him. “Voran’s been newly appointed Justiciar of the Northern Border.”

“Um, what?” Enj said. “What does that mean?”

“Anything he wants it to, I wager.” Garin smiled, as sly as a bargaining merchant. “Whatever power he can gather, whatever teeth he can put into the new law.”

“I see,” Kov said. “Then knowing Voran, I’d say it’s going to amount to a very important position indeed.”

Not just the Mountain Folk, but everyone in Dun Cengarn, and especially its gwerbret, had been wondering about this new post of justiciar as well. While they waited, Prince Daralanteriel had been inquiring about the exact meaning of the term, but neither Lord Oth nor the priests of Bel in Cengarn’s own temple could give him much information.

“It’s a new post that the high king’s invented,” Dar told his curious vassals at an impromptu council. “Cerrgonney has no gwerbretion, you see, so it needs some sort of legal officer. Voran will be able to try criminals and adjudicate feuds and disputes, just like a gwerbret, but his post won’t pass from father to son. The king wants someone who owes fealty directly to him rather than drawing his power from a holding of land.”

“But is it just for Cerrgonney, Your Highness?” Gerran said. “I thought the title was Justiciar of the Northern Border.”

“It is indeed.” Dar paused for a sly grin. “And Ridvar’s very aware that Arcodd stretches along the northern border for a good long way.”

“What’s east of Cerrgonney?” Mirryn asked.

Everyone turned to look at Salamander, who shrugged. “Not much,” the gerthddyn said. “Mountains, mostly. I’ve always assumed that Mountain Folk lived in them, but you know, now that you mention it, I’m not sure if they do or not.”

No one else knew, either. They were all sitting in the warm sunlight down in the meadow below Cengarn’s grim cliffs. The Westfolk had raised their tents and made a proper camp along the river’s edge among the scattered trees. On the other side of the ford, their horses grazed at tether.

“From what I hear about Cerrgonney,” Dar continued, “Voran will have more than enough trouble to occupy him without worrying about the eastern hills.”

“Or about us,” Calonderiel said. “Which gladdens my heart. As long as their own territories keep them busy, the cursed Roundears won’t be trying to take ours.” He glanced at Gerran and Mirryn. “No offense meant to our allies, of course.”

“Of course.” Dar rolled his eyes. “Your son has turned out to be a fine herald. He must have gotten his tact from his mother.”