He dove and flew so close to the treetops that they shook and dropped leaves. When he roared, he heard the panicked neighing of horses and the braying of mules answer him. Men shouted to one another. Although he heard animals moving in a rustle of underbrush and a crack of breaking branches, nothing broke free and tried to run. The Horsekin must have tied and hobbled their stock.
He took another turn over, looking for a spot where perhaps he could break through the canopy or even knock down a few of the smaller trees, but the raiders had chosen their hiding place well. Old-growth timber stood like a dun wall around and over them. And what if he reopened that wound in an attempt at breaking through? He roared a second time. Again he heard panic, but again, their discipline and their ropes both held, keeping them and their animals beyond his reach.
The third time he roared it was out of sheer frustration. He flew up high, turning to wing away from the forest. He would go back to the barrow and wait there for a while, he decided, then swoop back to see if they’d foolishly left their improvised lair. He badly wanted to kill something, to release all the rage he felt at the very thought of Laz Moj, kept as safe by his promise to Berwynna as the Horsekin were by the forest.
As soon as he’d seen the man, Laz’s image had wavered and blurred into three images, shifting from the sharp-faced man in front of him to Lord Tren to Alastyr, the vilest of them all in his fused memories. It had taken his entire will to refrain from raising one huge paw and killing him on the spot.
And all because of his newfound daughter and her begging that boon—although, as he thought about it, Dallandra as well had spoken to him of forgiveness and mercy, back in the summer past. Mercy. Once he’d understood that word. Now—had he forgotten it? Did it mean nothing? Long ago, his ancestor Prince Mael had written that mercy toward a noble lord’s inferiors was a good thing, one of the qualities that marked a man as noble. I’m not a man any longer, he thought, noble or common! And I’m glad of it!
But was he truly? He thought of Berwynna, the daughter he’d never known he had. On Haen Marn she had a twin sister—and a mother. Angmar had returned. He could see her again, if he could face letting her see him in dragon form. Once he got their daughter to safety, he could fly off and find Haen Marn. If he dared.
For a fourth time he roared, a huge trembling of sound that echoed across the barrens. With the roar he sent his thoughts away, troublesome, painful thoughts that vexed him more than spears or arrows ever could. What counted now, he reminded himself, was getting what remained of the caravan to safety and delivering his report to Prince Dar. He refused to let himself think beyond that.
Rori settled down on the barrow to brood and wait, but although he stayed until the sun was low in the sky, the Horsekin never left their refuge in the forest.
Berwynna knelt by Dougie’s grave. Since the wooden cross she’d made would never last beyond the summer, she’d gathered small rocks, which she laid into the dirt to form a cross shape that would endure. She patted the earth down around it with both hands.
“Farewell, beloved,” she whispered in the language of Alban. “May you ride in Lord Jesu’s warband forever, just like you wanted.”
“Wynni!” Mic was calling to her in Dwarvish. “Come mount up!”
Berwynna got up and blew the grave one last kiss, then turned and walked off to join her uncle and the caravan without looking back.
With such a late start, the caravan could travel only a few miles south that day. Still, Richt kept everyone moving as long as possible through the unfamiliar country, until they’d left the road far behind them. If anyone wanted to follow them, Berwynna supposed, they could track them by the trail that the mules and horses trampled into the grass. She doubted if anyone would, thanks to the silver dragon. She kept a watch on the sky, hoping to see him, but it was late afternoon before he rejoined them.
At times he circled high above them; at others, he flew a criss-cross pattern over their line of march; always he stayed within their sight and the sight as well of any possible enemies. When near sunset Richt finally called a halt, the dragon landed nearby, just far enough away to keep from frightening the stock.
“Very well, Wynni,” Laz said to her, “it’s time we told your father the truth about that book. Someone else will tend your horse for you.”
Had Laz not gone with her, Berwynna might well have lacked the courage to tell the silver dragon about the lost book. As it was, she found herself lagging behind as he led the way through the tall grass. When he saw them coming, Rori lowered himself to lie with his legs tucked under him. The sunset light dappled his silvery hide with a pale orange and gleamed on his scales.
“What do you want?” Rori said to Laz.
“I’ve somewhat to tell you,” Laz said, “because it may concern you.” He glanced at Berwynna. “We had a book of dweomer spells, I think it was, written in the language of the Ancients, but thanks to bandits and recalcitrant mules, we’ve lost it.”
For that “we” Berwynna could have thrown herself at his feet in thanks. Instead she merely nodded.
“Not the dragon book?” Rori said. “White leather-bound, and a black dragon on the cover?”
“The very one, alas.”
“Do you know if it was written by a creature named Evandar?”
“I don’t, but Evandar had somewhat to do with it. Wynni’s betrothed brought it to her, and he told us that Evandar had shown him where to find it.”
Not quite true, that Dougie had gifted her with the book, but Berwynna decided that she would let it lie rather than admit to a theft—if indeed, theft it was.
The dragon rippled his wings as if he were about to lift them free of his body, then settled back into the grass. “Then it did concern me, greatly even, or so a Westfolk dweomerwoman told me. How did you lose it?”
If Laz could face an angry dragon who hated him, Berwynna decided, she could face one who was her bloodkin.
“I were the one, Da.” Berwynna stepped forward. “It were in my saddlebags, and when those raiders, they did attack us, my mule did panic and throw me. Then it did gallop off, and never did it return.”
“Ah, I see.” The dragon considered this briefly. “Then you didn’t lose it. It was taken from you by those murdering scum when they attacked. You’re hardly to blame.”
Berwynna wanted to feel relieved. She wanted with her very soul to have the burden of guilt she felt lifted. Yet still it nagged at her. We should tell him the whole truth, she thought. She tried to muster the courage to do so, but Laz was speaking again.
“I’ve been thinking about getting it back,” Laz said. “In the morning, when it’s light, I could change into the raven while you guard the caravan. If I see this wretched mule, which can’t have gone that far in two days, then I could fly back and tell you, and you could go off and fetch it. No doubt it would do for your breakfast.”
Rori glared at him. “Trying to curry favor, are you?”
“Trying to show you that I’m not whoever it is you think I am.”
The dragon rumbled with laughter. “I’ll give you this, Laz Moj. You don’t lack guts in this life.”
Laz stared at him gape-mouthed, then suddenly grinned. “I think me I begin to understand somewhat.” Laz glanced Berwynna’s way and stopped smiling. “But this is no time to discuss it.”
“True spoken.”
Berwynna could tell that she was being left out of some secret, but considering her role in losing the book, she decided against demanding to be let in.
“About that idea of mine—” Laz said.
“It’s too dangerous.” Rori shook his massive head. “I’ve been flying over the Northlands for some days now. The Horsekin are up to something, all right. I’ve seen more than one band of them prowling around. Some of them have archers. Could an arrow bring the raven down?”
Laz sucked in his breath with a little hiss.
“I take it that means it could,” Rori went on. “Besides, I don’t want to leave the caravan.
My daughter’s life means more to me than the book. Once you’ve all reached safety, I can fly back north and hunt for the saddlebags myself. Wolves aren’t going to eat a book, even if they should kill the mule.”
Laz nodded in agreement.
“But, Da,” Berwynna joined in. “Be it that you want not the book? What you say does make me wonder if you do or not.”
Rori made a sound that fell halfway between a growl and his rumbling laugh. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I truly don’t know if I want it or not.” He lowered his head in order to look at her face-to -face. “And that’s the only answer I can give you today.”
“Well and good, then, but I—”
Berwynna broke off speaking when Rori stood up, clumsy on his short, bowed legs. His tail slashed through the grass behind him. “I’m going to hunt,” he announced. “Leave me!”
Berwynna found herself glad to do just that. She followed Laz as he ran back to the caravan with no pretense of courage. Already the men had lit campfires against the gathering night. When she reached the edge of the warm glow she stopped, out of breath, and turned to look back. The dragon was just launching himself into the air in a blur and thunder of wings. She watched as he circled, gaining height, then flew westward to disappear into the last glow of the sunset sky.
Berwynna’s mule had nearly reached the river when it smelled a herd close by. It stopped walking and threw up its head to sniff the wind—a herd, most assuredly. When it brayed, it heard a distant answer. As it trotted toward the sound, it kept testing the wind. The scent of two-legged things came with the scent of other mules and of horses, a different scent than the two-legged things it was accustomed to. When at last it saw the herd, turned out to pasture for the night, it saw the two-legged things as well. These had manes of black hair—very different than the other ones, who had short light manes, but the mules and horses looked and smelled like its old herd.
It was a huge herd, too, covering a long stretch of grass. No wolves could threaten any herd this large. Cautiously, with one eye out for a stallion, the mule took a position out on the edge. Another mule nickered in friendly greeting. No one challenged it. With a sense of overwhelming relief, it lowered its head and began to graze.
"Dalla?” Sidro said. "Laz, he be coming this way.”
"What?” Dalla said. "You’re sure?”
"Truly. I did dream of him last night, and when I woke, I did know the dream were true. There be somewhat wrong with his hands. They be scarred, and some of his fingers, they be gone.”
“Are you surprised? From the way you described what happened when he touched those crystals together, it’s amazing that he’s not dead or at least blind.”
Sidro sat down in the grass near Dallandra, who was perched on a fallen log, nursing little Dari. Every now and then Dari let go of the nipple to whine and squirm in her mother’s arms.
“Her bottom be sore,” Sidro said.
“I know. I put some oil on it. It’s those beastly rags we were using at the Red Wolf dun. Out here I’ve been filling her carry sack with grass. The rash already looks better.”
“That be a splendid idea, the grass. Then when it be soiled, you just pour it out and pull more. I do wish I’d known that, back when I had my own little one.”
A good many miles west of Cengarn, they were sitting at the edge of the royal alar’s camp, watching the men strike camp. Sidro could see Pir walking among his share of the horses, talking to one here, stroking another’s neck there. The geldings and mares clustered around him or followed when he moved on, though the golden stallion kept his distance. Whenever one of the mares rubbed up against Pir, the stallion would lay his ears back, but he never attempted to bite the herd master.
“Have you told Pir about Laz?” Dallandra said.
“I haven’t.” Sidro felt the familiar anxiety rise, trembling her hands. “I know not what to do, Dalla.”
“Well, I’m not you, but if I were, I’d tell Pir and see what he says.”
“You be braver than I.”
Sidro stood up and shaded her eyes with one hand as she searched for Pir, who had momentarily disappeared from view. He reappeared by standing up; most likely he’d been checking the hooves of one of his horses.
“Sooner or later he’ll have to know,” Dallandra said.
“True spoken. I’ll tell him this very night, after we do make camp.”
Yet Sidro found one excuse after another to put off telling him that night, and the next as well, until she dreamt of Laz again. She woke to gray light and the sound of rain on the tent roof. Beside her in their blankets Pir lay asleep, one arm thrown over his face. Cautiously she sat up without waking him. She took her tunic from the ground and pulled it on. Over the winter she’d sewn them both Westfolk clothing with the help of the other women in the alar. Although her embroidery still looked clumsy to her, compared to the beautiful craft of the others, she’d grown used to the comfort of the loose linen as opposed to her old heavy leather dress.
We’re happy here, she thought, Pir and I. Another thought sounded in her mind like the clang of a brass bell, loud and threatening—Laz, riding closer every day. She realized that she was thinking of Laz as a storm cloud, sweeping into view on a sunny day.
“What’s wrong?” Pir yawned and sat up. “You look frightened.”
“Do I?”
He cocked his head to one side and considered her. “I can smell fear on you,” he said.
Sidro took a deep breath, then decided to just blurt the truth. “It’s because Laz is on his way here.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. The bond between us, the magic we shared—of course I’m certain.”
“Ah.”
She waited, but he said nothing more, his face abruptly masked, distant from her. The distance wrung her heart.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sidro said.
“Don’t you want him back?” Pir said.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s something, more than I thought I’d ever get.”
“Don’t say that! You deserve more. You’ve been so good to me, I—I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to do. Will you go off with Laz and the rest of the men if he doesn’t want to stay here?”
“No. You asked me once if I was happy here. Well, I’ve made up my mind about it. I have my horses, and for the first time in my life, I have friends. I won’t be leaving.”
“Well, I don’t want to lose you, and now I’m studying with Val, too, but you know that Laz won’t want to stay with the Westfolk. He’s not going to ride at the prince’s orders just so he can be my First Man.”
“Laz will never ride at anyone’s orders. He’ll want you to go away with him.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And most likely you’ll go.”
“I don’t know that.” But when he touches me, she thought, can I really say him nay?
Pir smiled, a brief flicker of a smile, then reached over and caught her hand. “Well, then, we’ll see when he gets here. That’s all we can do, wait and see what happens then.”
He was right, she supposed. Bitterly, bitterly right—she felt as cold as if a sorcerous snowfall had fallen from the clear summer sky. What was Laz going to say when he found her with the horse mage instead of staying faithful to him like a patient slave? It’s my right to have a Second Man, she told herself. She knew, as well, that she wasn’t afraid of Laz, that it was herself, her own weakness for him, that frightened her. Every time he touched her, she felt her sense of self melting away.
But thinking of the ancient laws of the Gel da’Thae reminded her of something important. I still have one weapon, she realized. Laz was as Gel da’Thae as she was. Some things they would share forever, no matter how far from home they were. One weapon, if she could bring herself to use it—and she’d not have to say a word.
With a dragon for an escort, what was left of Aethel’s caravan met no more trouble as it made its way south. Every
morning Rori would fly ahead, then return to tell Richt and Laz the best route to take while he circled above, on guard against enemies. They picked their way through tangled primeval forest, dismounted to lead the horses and remaining mules along the narrow paths beside streams, luxuriated in the few patches of meadow they came upon, and finally rode down one last canyon to see the open grasslands stretching out before them in the golden light of late afternoon.
As she looked out across the seemingly endless green, bowing and rising in the wind like the waves in Haen Marn’s loch, Berwynna had never felt so alone, so desolate, despite the men around her, human and Gel da’Thae both, including her beloved uncle, riding next to her. What would Dougie have said if he could have seen this? she wondered. Once again she saw the image of his shattered flesh and cursed her memory for refusing to scrub it away.
“Are you all right?” Mic said in Dwarvish.
“No. Just thinking about Dougie.”
“I wondered. I miss the lad, too.” Mic rose in the stirrups and looked out across the grass. “Empty out here. Rori told me we’d be safe, though, once we reached the plains.”
When Berwynna glanced at the sky, she saw her father, so distant that he looked as small as a white bird. I lost the book. That thought returned to her whenever she looked at her father, despite his apparent indifference to the book’s fate. Thinking about the book was so much less painful than her memories of the man she’d loved that she was willing to dwell on it, as if it were some foul-tasting medicine brewed by her sister to chase away a worse ill. During their ride south, Laz had scried often for the dragon book. He’d never seen anything but the darkness inside its wrappings.
The silver wyrm circled lower, then landed a safe distance from their horses. When Laz and Richt dismounted, Berwynna joined them. Riding a heavy cavalry horse, far too large for her slight frame, had made her legs ache so badly that she dismounted at every pause. She decided that she was beginning to hate horses, all in all, and mules even more. The three of them walked over to the dragon, who was sitting with his front legs stretched out in front of him like a hound at a hearthside. In the sun his scales glittered around the pink stripe of the old wound on his side.