“Now, now,” Angmar broke in. “More like you just mislaid it somewhere. What would Wynni be wanting with a book, and her not able to read? It be your sister’s whereabouts that worry me, anyway, not some book.”
“I do wager she knows value when she sees it.” Mara started to say more, then glanced Laz’s way and forced out a hypocritical smile. “But of course I do worry about her, as well. Avain may have the power to see her.”
In an anxious pack they hurried outside to Avain’s tower and trooped up the stairs along with a cloud of Mara’s cats, who always seemed to know excitement when they saw it. Avain was sitting at the table by her window, her big puffy head bent over her silver basin of water. Two of the cats jumped onto the table and advanced upon the basin as if they were planning on having a drink from it. Avain raised a huge hand and shooed them away.
“Avain, my love,” Angmar began.
“She be on the water, Mama,” Avain said.
“Wynni, you mean?”
“Wynni be on the water with Dougie.”
Although Angmar asked her many a question more, always the answer was the same, “Wynni be on the water with Dougie.”
“Mama, no more asking!” Avain looked up from the basin with tears in her eyes. “Avain see no more.”
“Well and good, then, my love.” Angmar ran her hand through Avain’s hair and smiled, soothing her. “My thanks for telling us what you did see.”
“Avain,” Mara said, and with her mooncalf sister, her voice was always gentle and kind. “Be it that I may ask you a question?”
“Not about Wynni.”
“Not about Wynni. About a book, a big big book with a dragon on the cover.”
“Dragon?” Avain grinned wide, exposing her oddly large teeth. “Avain see a dragon?”
“Be it that you can?”
Once again she bent her head to her scrying basin. This time, however, she shook her head in a no. The tears came back to her eyes.
“No dragon,” she said, “no book, no blanket, no dragon.”
Blanket? Laz thought. Ah, she took the word “cover” that way!
“Mama will be coming back with food for you in just a bit, my sweet,” Angmar said. “Worry not, and my thanks.”
Avain smiled, sunny again.
“Does it gladden your heart to be home?” Mara asked her.
“Home be good.” Avain’s smile grew broader. “Bad Alban. No dragons in Alban.”
“A serious lack, no doubt,” Laz said, “in any place.”
Avain stuck her tongue out at him, a normal pink tongue, albeit huge. What did I expect? Laz thought. A split like a snake’s? Just that, he realized, to match her strangely round eyes, green and lashless.
“Mara make bread,” Avain said. “Wynni gone.”
“I know not how to make bread,” Mara said, smiling at her. “Lonna will make bread.”
“You know, my sweet,” Angmar said. “Though you be the Lady of the Isle, with your sister gone, it behooves you to help Lonna at her tasks. She be old, indeed, older no doubt than you ken or can imagine.”
“It be so hot in the kitchen, and smoky.” Mara turned toward the door and took a few steps. “I shan’t work there.”
“I did warn you, did I not?” Angmar followed her. “Never have you honored your sister’s work enough. Now you shall see how much she did.”
Mara said a few words in Dwarvish, then stalked off with Angmar right behind, talking in the same language. Laz heard them arguing all the way down the stairs. By the time he caught up with them outside, their argument had become heated.
Laz considered the swaying pale leaves of the apple trees. He might as well attempt to scry for the book, he decided, with a living focus like the leaves. Once again the thick etheric water veil surrounding the island defeated him. When I leave, he thought, I’ll be able to scry then. The book, while interesting, lacked any real meaning for him, but these days Sidro was always in his thoughts.
In the warmth of an Alban spring day, the apple blossoms in Domnal Breich’s steading hung heavy on the branches. Domnal himself was weeding his vegetable garden when Father Colm came puffing up to the front gate. The priest paused to mop his red face with the sleeve of his cassock, then called out a hallo. Domnal laid down his hoe and strolled over.
“Come in, Father.” Domnal reached for the latch. “Cool yourself with some well water.”
“I can’t stop, but my thanks,” Colm said. “I just came to bring you the news. Those witches and their flying island have disappeared. When my lord’s shepherd was chasing down lost sheep after the storm, he saw that it was gone.”
Domnal tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. Dimly he was aware of Jehan, walking out of the front door.
“I just wanted to make sure,” Colm said, “that your lad was safe at home.”
Jehan cried out, then covered her mouth with both hands.
“He’s not.” Domnal forced himself to speak calmly. “He never came home last night.”
Colm crossed himself, then did it again for good measure. “I’ll pray for him,” the priest said. “I’d advise you to do the same.”
Jehan began to weep, then turned and rushed for the house. Domnal heard the door slam hard.
“I will,” Domnal said. “And my thanks for the news.”
The priest murmured a blessing, made the sign of the cross over them both, then set off down the road, heading for Lord Douglas’ dun. For a long time Domnal stood at the gate, clutching the wooden bar with both hands, watching until the priest disappeared. “Evandar’s doing,” he said aloud. “I’d damn his soul, but it would be a waste of breath.”
In his mind he could hear the words of an old song:
“The road to Heaven’s a high road
The road to Hell runs low.
In between on no road at all
The Host drifts to and fro.”
With a shudder he left the gate and went inside to comfort his weeping wife. He would have given up his prosperous steading and everything he owned to have his eldest lad back, but he knew in his heart that the giving would be futile. His worst fear had come to pass. His son was the price of Evandar’s boons.
PART II
THE NORTHLANDS SPRING, 1160
All matter be naught but a concatenation of force, even that which makes what we call our bodies, but in some matter the forms be more stable than in others, depending upon the proportions of the Five Elements in each.
—The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
ON A GLORIOUS SPRING AFTERNOON, a pair of couriers arrived at the Red Wolf dun, bearing letters from Prince Daralanteriel. The letters told his honored vassal, Tieryn Cadryc, that he was making a progress through his lands along their eastern border.
“That’s our western border.” Lady Solla glanced up from the letter. “Or wait! We’re inside the prince’s rhan now, so I suppose we’re on his eastern border ourselves.”
“So we are.” Cadryc paused for a sip of ale, as if he needed to wash this thought down for the digesting. “Um, do go on, my lady.”
Solla cleared her throat and resumed reading. “We shall be stopping at Lord Samyc’s dun for a brief visit before proceeding to yours. We hope and trust that you, your clan, and your vassals have survived the winter in good health. Yours in high regard, Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands, heir to the Seven Cities and the Vale of Roses.”
“Must have been a splendid place, his rhan,” Cadryc said with a sigh, “before the accursed Horsekin burnt the lot. Well, one of these days maybe we’ll see about getting it back for him, eh?”
“It’s a pretty thought, Your Grace,” Solla said. “Shall I write your answer now?”
“Let me think on it a bit, though I suppose I don’t need to say much, eh?”
“Probably not.” Solla rose with a curtsy. “Well and good, then, Your Grace. I’ll be in the women’s hall.”
Yet another pair of speeded couriers arrived some days later, Deverry men, this time,
with a letter from Prince Voran, inquiring politely if Tieryn Cadryc had heard anything of his overlord’s plans. He had also sent along a sealed letter for Daralanteriel on the off chance that Cadryc would see him first. Unfortunately, Prince Dar’s couriers had left by then, but at least Cadryc could tell the messengers that Prince Daralanteriel was riding north. Voran had sent the message from Pren Cludan, where he was visiting its tieryn on his way to Cengarn. On the morrow his messengers left with a letter from Cadryc to rejoin their prince.
It was some days later, when Gerran was sitting with the tieryn at the table of honor, that Cadryc brought up the subject of the prince’s coming visit to Cengarn.
“Now, I’ve been thinking, Gerro,” Cadryc said. “You’d best ride with our overlord when he heads north. You need to go to Cengarn yourself to ask about that inheritance. Ridvar never gave you a dowry, the mingy little bastard, so he’s got no reason to withhold it.”
“And what will Ridvar say when I turn up at his gates?” Gerran said. “Will he even let me in?”
“I owe him one last set of dues. It’s the scot to settle my breaking free of his overlordship. If you’re delivering it, he’ll have to treat you honorably.”
“True spoken. You know, Your Grace, an odd thing: I hate to leave Solla now that she’s with child.”
“Oh, it’s best to let the womenfolk handle these things on their own. They know all about it, eh? We don’t. Besides, my wife tells me that your lady won’t be delivered for a fair many months yet.”
Gerran was inclined to argue further, but he suspected that to do so would be unmanly in the extreme. Late that afternoon, when he and Solla got a chance to speak privately in their chamber, he asked her outright if she’d be distressed if he were to leave. She considered the question while she arranged a couple of pillows against the headboard of their bed. She kicked off her clogs, then climbed up and sat, leaning against the pillows and stretching her legs comfortably in front of her.
“I’d rather you were here,” she said at last, “because I love you, but I’m a warrior’s daughter as well as a warrior’s wife. I know full well that the Horsekin are going to start raiding again, and we’ve to build the dun and gather the warband to stop them.”
“So we do.” He perched on the edge of the bed, facing her.
“Besides, you’ll be happier in the saddle, riding out to settle important matters. This winter was awfully hard on you, shut up in the snows.”
“It was a cursed sight easier than most winters, because of you, I mean.”
“My thanks.” She smiled again, briefly. “But you’ve had too much time to think.”
“I have, truly. I suppose I should stop brooding about that battle. ”
“That’s the reason I want you to be out and about. It’s vexed you all winter, hasn’t it?”
“It has. I never should have turned on that Horsekin with the broken leg. My father’s killer—huh, he deserved what he got, but that other fellow? Ye gods, he couldn’t even stand!” With a shake of his head, Gerran tried to dismiss the memory. “It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell you the tale, either. The shame keeps coming back like a witch’s curse.”
“I honestly don’t understand why. He would have killed you if he could have.”
“But he couldn’t. That’s what makes all the difference.” Gerran reached over to pat her hand. “Don’t vex yourself about it, my love. I’ll get over it. But you’re right enough that I need somewhat to do.”
“I hope Cadryc will let Mirryn go with you. He really should take a look at Lady Egriffa.”
“Who?”
“One of Drwmigga’s serving women. She’s the second daughter of a tieryn, you see, and Galla thinks she might be a good match for Mirryn.”
“Then he’ll be going with us. Do you truly think that Cadryc can hold out if our Galla lays a siege?”
They shared a laugh.
Sure enough, that night at dinner Cadryc announced that when the time came, Mirryn and ten men of the warband would accompany Gerran on his ride north. Gerran would take his page, young Clae. Salamander volunteered to go as well.
“The spring is upon us, good tieryn,” Salamander said. “I’ve eaten more than enough of your food, and you’ve heard enough of my tales and chatter, so I shall be on my way when our Gerro rides north.”
Later that afternoon Gerran had a private word with Salamander. They met out by the stables, but the grooms were mucking out the stalls with Clae and Coryn to help them. Gerran had caught them persecuting young Ynedd again and decided they deserved the punishment. Salamander led the way down to the cleaner air near the dun wall.
“Much better!” Salamander pronounced. “I don’t know which was worse, the stench or the swarming flies. I take it you have somewhat to ask me.”
“Just that,” Gerran said. “How far away is Prince Dar’s alar?”
“Not very. They’ve reached Lord Samyc’s. Which reminds me. Would it be a wrong thing for me to tell them about that secret road through the forest? It would save much needed time.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Dar’s the overlord for all our lands now, and so in some sense he owns that road.”
“Ah, very good! I shall pass along the secret, then.”
Gerran paused, struck by Salamander’s remark. “Why much needed time?”
“Because the Wise One, Lady Dallandra, is vastly pregnant,” Salamander said. “The sooner they get here, the better.”
Mother’s saddle or no, Dallandra was having a hard time staying on horseback during the day’s march. Whenever their route ran uphill, she would cling shamelessly to the cantle with one hand and the pommel with the other and pray to whatever goddess came to mind first. Once they reached the tieryn’s secret road, however, the traveling became a little easier. Around noon on their second day on the road, they came free of the forest. Dallandra saw the Red Wolf dun from a distance, its tower a dark mark just cutting into the horizon.
“There it is,” she told Pir. “Probably some five miles away.”
Pir smiled and nodded, but, as usual, said nothing.
As they plodded onward, Dallandra slowly became aware of an ache in her back. It’s this wretched sidesaddle, she thought. In another mile, however, the pain became more insistent, then localized itself around the baby just as the dun came clearly into view. Still, that contraction passed easily; they went another mile more before the second. The third, however, followed on fast. I’ve got to hold on, Dalla told herself. Almost there. Pir abruptly raised his head and sniffed the air.
“You’re in labor,” he said.
“I am, but it’s early yet. I—oh! curse it all!”
Her water broke, a sudden gush that soaked her leggings and the saddle both. The mare snorted, tossed her head, and might have bucked had Pir not laid a hand on her neck. She steadied down immediately.
“Sidro!” Pir bellowed. “Come quick!”
Calonderiel came galloping back with her. Up at the head of the line of march, Prince Dar called out something—Dallandra wasn’t quite sure what—but she did see a single rider peel out of line and head at a gallop for the Red Wolf’s gates.
“It’s just started,” Dalla gasped in Elvish. “I can make it to the dun.”
So she did, but barely. As the royal procession straggled in through the dun gates, Dallandra saw Lady Galla on the steps of the broch, yelling orders at her servants. Calonderiel caught Dallandra as she slid down from her saddle, only half voluntarily.
“I can walk,” Dallandra gritted her teeth as pain swept through her.
“No, you can’t.” Calonderiel picked her up and, swearing under his breath, carried her into the broch.
As far as Gerran could tell, every woman in the dun, except for the lowly servant lasses, rushed upstairs after Dallandra to help with the birth. Exalted Mother Grallezar followed more slowly, her arms full of saddlebags. While the rest of the Westfolk made camp outside the gates, Prince Daralanteriel joined Gerran an
d Cadryc at the honor table. Not long after, Calonderiel came down to sit with them as well.
“I’ve been told to leave her alone,” Calonderiel said. “At least they don’t mind me waiting down here. When Maelaber was being born, the women nearly chased me out of camp. I suppose I was a little bit unreasonable at the time, though.”
“There’s naught we can do, after all. I know it from bitter experience, lad,” Cadryc gestured at a servant lass. “Mead for our guests!”
“Why bitter?” Calonderiel said.
“My elder son died before I could even fetch the midwife. Back in our old dun, that was.” Cadryc glanced at Cal’s suddenly pale face, then went on hastily. “Not that such will be happening to your child, mind. Your lady’s got the best help in the world.”
Calonderiel gulped his mead down before the lass finished pouring for the others. She refilled his goblet, curtsied, and hurried away to help serve Daralanteriel’s warband, who were filing into the great hall a few at a time. Cadryc turned to his royal guest, sitting at his right hand.
“It gladdens my heart to see you, my prince,” Cadryc said. “Among other things, I’ve got a letter for you from Prince Voran. He didn’t know where else to send it.” He rose from his chair and looked around, then bellowed at Clae, who was talking with Neb over by the servant’s hearth. “Page! Neb, come over here, too, would you?”
Cadryc sent Clae off to find Prince Voran’s letter. Neb waited to read it, standing behind and to one side of Prince Dar’s chair. Neb had changed over the winter, Gerran noticed, grown taller, for one thing, though he was as skinny as ever. The biggest change proved harder to pin down. Something about his eyes caught Gerran’s attention, a certain confidence, a new strength, and yet along with those qualities he displayed a surprising kind of world-weariness, as if his eyes had looked upon a measure of sad experience proper to a much older man.
When Clae returned with the message tube, Prince Dar broke the seal, then handed the tube to his scribe. Neb shook out the parchment, glanced over the letter, then read it aloud in a voice that had deepened since last Gerran had heard it. On the far side of the hall, after a susurrus of shushing each other, the servants and warbands fell silent to listen. Tankard in hand, Salamander drifted over to lean against the nearby pillar.