The Shadow Isle (13 page)

“Very strange, then,” Valandario said.

“Well, only half of his mother’s blood came from the Mountain Folk,” Rori went on. “And he was raised above ground on the island. ”

“But he didn’t disappear along with the rest of them?”

“He wasn’t on the island at the time, Val. He was helping me find Arzosah.”

“I remember that bit,” Dallandra said. “Rori, can you bring Val that horn?”

“That depends on Enj. If he’ll part with it, I suppose I could fly hundreds of miles north and figure out a way to carry it and then fly all the way back again.”

“Well, by the Black Sun!” Val said. “It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.”

“Naught but scout for our mortal enemies.” The dragon raised his tail as if to slap the ground, then gently laid it back down. “Or have you forgotten the Horsekin?”

“They’re to the north, aren’t they?” Val said. “Why can’t you do both at once?”

The dragon raised his head and glared at her. Val set her hands on her hips and stared into his eyes until, with a sigh, Rori looked away. “Flames and fumes!” he said. “Living around dweomerfolk could drive a man daft and a dragon even dafter.”

“There, there.” Dallandra patted his massive jaw. “Don’t forget, we’re discussing this in hopes of turning you back into your true form.”

“Just so,” Valandario said. “Now, if you could fetch me that horn, and if I can heal it so it sounds the dweomer spell again, and if Dalla and I can figure out the correct workings, well, then, we might be able to summon the island.”

“Exactly.” Dalla said. “And if we actually manage to do all that, then let’s hope that the book does have the instructions for the dragon working in it. You never know with Evandar’s schemes.”

“True spoken.” The dragon heaved himself to his feet. “That’s the Guardians for you! But well and good then, I’m off to the Northlands. If Arzosah comes looking for me, you’d best not tell her where I’ve gone. I doubt me if she’ll take kindly to the idea of my turning back into a man.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Dallandra felt her stomach clench at the thought of Arzosah in a rage. “Um, we’ll ford that river when it’s time to cross. What else can we do?”

With a shrug of wing, the silver dragon waddled off, ridiculously clumsy in the grass. He waddled faster, bunched his muscles, and leaped into the air with a rush of wings like thunder booming, all grace, suddenly, and power, as he soared high and disappeared into the glare of the sun.

As he flew off, Rori was grumbling to himself about the arrogance of dweomerfolk, but soon enough the flying itself soothed him. He loved the feeling of soaring high above the earth, rising on the wind in splendid freedom, or swooping down only to spiral skyward again. At times, when he glided upon a favoring wind, it seemed to him that the world below was moving while he rested, master of the air.

If he returned to human form, he’d be giving up the power and the freedom of flight. That thought nagged him worse than his wound. And what would he get in return?
Hands,
he thought.
It would be splendid to have hands again, and cooked food, and other such comforts.
But those puny comforts could never compensate for the loss.

As he flew over the Melyn River, he considered turning back and telling Dallandra that the effort she would have to make was simply not worth it, that she and Valandario doubtless had more important work to do. What stopped him was the thought of Enj. If naught else, perhaps the two dweomermasters could bring the island back and Enj’s clan with it.

And what of Angmar?
Rori asked himself. He’d longed for her return himself, once, a very long time ago now, it seemed to him when he thought about it. He could remember her so clearly, and remember his grief at losing her, but the grief had lost its sting. Missing Angmar, flying north each spring to see if Haen Marn had returned, stopping to speak with Enj—he’d performed these actions faithfully each year for over forty years now, until they’d taken on a distant quality, like a ritual performed by a priest while he merely watched.

Yet, for Enj the grief still lived. For the sake of his friend, Rori flew north on Valandario’s errand. He’d bring the horn back, he decided, then return to his scouting. As for the other matter, he would wait and see if it were even possible to walk the earth as a man instead flying so far above it. If it turned out to be possible, he’d make his decision then.

The river that flows through Lin Serr’s parkland seems to emerge like dweomer from under the dwarven city, but in truth, it runs above ground for most of its course. At the time of which we speak, few people knew its secret, but Enj was one of them. About twenty miles north of Lin Serr, an ordinary-looking river flowed into a canyon gouged from the limestone of an ancient sea floor, only to disappear under the cliff blocking the canyon’s southern end. It ran through caverns until it reached the city, and from there at last regained the sunlight.

Every spring, Enj left Lin Serr and hiked to that canyon, then followed the river north. It led after many windings to the general area in which Haen Marn had existed during its sojourn on the Roof of the World. At times Haen Marn’s own river had joined up with it, though at other times, it hadn’t. No one knew why or how the changes occurred; they followed, like everything about Haen Marn, some unknowable fluctuation within the inner planes of the universe.

Over the past forty years Enj had built himself a cabin in a mountain meadow near the previous location of his old home. Every spring he returned there, planted a vegetable garden, and spent the summer waiting just in case the island decided to return. As Rori had guessed, Enj did have the remains of the horn that had summoned the dragon boat from the island. Occasionally he would sit on the front steps of his cabin, hold the crushed lump of silver, green with tarnish, and weep over it while he wondered if he’d ever see the island again. At times he felt profoundly foolish for doing so, but the ritual gave him a certain amount of satisfaction, rather like biting on a sore tooth.

Enj had just finished one of these sessions and was putting the horn back into its leather storage pouch when he heard the thunder of approaching wings. He hung the pouch from a nail on the cabin wall, then strolled outside as the silver dragon landed. Rori waddled over to greet him.

“I did wonder when you’d be turning up,” Enj spoke the Mountain dialect of Deverrian. “The weather be about right for dragons.”

“It’s spring, truly,” Rori said. “Did you fare well over the winter?”

“Well enough. Lin Serr does weigh upon me after but a month or so, all that stone and short views.” Enj glanced around the broad meadow, dusted with the first pale green grass, ringed with distant pine forest. To the north, beyond the trees mountains rose, glittering with snow at the peaks. “This does suit me far better.”

“Me, too.” The dragon folded his enormous wings with a long rustle like collapsing canvas tents. “I’ve brought you some news. Two Westfolk dweomerworkers have taken up the task of bringing Haen Marn back.”

Enj tried to speak, couldn’t, felt tears gathering in his eyes. Irritably, he brushed them away with the back of his hand. “That does gladden my heart,” he said at last. “Think you that they’ll succeed?”

“If anyone can, they will.”

“If anyone can.”

Rori shrugged with a ripple of massive muscles. “If not, then we’ll have to go on hoping that the island makes its own way back.”

“True spoken, that.”

“They need somewhat of yours, though, the silver horn. They think that if they can heal it with dweomer, then it might help them summon the island.”

“I’ll give it over gladly in the hopes of seeing my mam and my home again. Will you carry it back?”

“I will, if you can fix up some sort of pouch that you can tie around my neck. That would be the safest way, I think.”

“I do have the pouch.” Enj paused, estimating the circumference of the dragon’s massive neck. “We’ll need a long fastening for it. I did kill a deer some weeks past, and I’ve been tanning the hide. ’Twill do to cut some strips for braiding, but the work will take some time.”

“We’ve waited forty years. We can wait a day or two more.”

They shared a laugh.

While Enj worked on cutting and braiding straps for the leather pouch, Rori flew off again to hunt. He returned two days later, bringing another dead deer with him—his dinner, though he had Enj butcher a haunch for himself. After Enj had put the haunch on a hook in a shady corner of the cabin to hang, and Rori had eaten the rest of the deer, Enj came back outside to join him.

“My thanks for the venison,” Enj remarked. “You were always a generous man, Rori.”

“A man, truly,” Rori said. “Once. Well, we’ll see what these dweomermasters can do. They have a plan, you see, to turn me back again, should I want.”

“Do you want?”

“I don’t know. At times I do, at times I don’t. Who knows if their plan will work, anyway? Dweomer’s like that. It always seems to be able to do what you don’t want, then fail on the things you do.”

“Bitter, bitter, eh? Still?”

The dragon growled under his breath, but Enj laughed, and the dragon eventually joined him.

“One thing I wonder about,” Rori said. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve not had the slightest trouble believing that dweomer exists and works in the world, yet other dwarven men I’ve met deny it. Deny it? They mock it.”

“That be so,” Enj said. “But I was born and raised on Haen Marn. They weren’t.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that. Although you know, I once met a band of Mountain Folk who had a dweomermaster of their own, and he was a man, not a woman. They lived a fair bit differently than your folk, though. Their women walked around in the sunlight just like the men.”

Enj nearly choked on the thought. For a moment he could only goggle at the dragon like a half-wit. “Worms and slimes,” he said feebly. “And where did this marvel lie?”

“Down in Deverry proper. There’s some hills there—I would have called them mountains once, but now I’ve seen true mountains—so, hills on the border twixt Cantrae and Cwm Pecl. And some of your folk live inside them and farm above.”

Enj’s thoughts began to sort themselves out at last. “Another band of Mountain Folk?” he said. “This be the most interesting bit of news I’ve had in years, Rori. Now, I did hear about one other group of our brethren in an old tale about the ancient days. They did survive the first Horsekin attacks and tried to shelter with the Westfolk, but the Westfolk turned them away, and they were all slain.”

“I’ve heard that tale, too,” the dragon said, “but what if they weren’t killed? What if they fled east—east and south, that would be?”

Enj suddenly laughed. “Makes sense, truly. If so, that be one up on the old men like Otho, eh? For centuries they’ve clung to that bitter tale, pouring vinegar in their wounds over it, and now, by all the gods! It might not even be true.”

“When you go back to Lin Serr this winter, tell your loremasters, will you?”

“I will. You may rest assured about that.”

Enj brought out the remains of the silver horn and tied the pouch securely around the dragon’s neck. With a last call of farewell, Rori launched himself and flew off to the west. Enj stood in the cabin door and watched the dragon disappear into the sunny sky. For the first time in over forty years, he felt honest hope.

"Mam?” Mara said. "Be you busy just now?” "Not truly, my sweet,” Angmar said. "Why?”

"I did wish to talk with you.”

Angmar nodded at the bench near her chair. Mara sat down, smoothing her skirts under her. They were sitting in the great hall of Haen Marn’s manse, near a window where sun streamed in with the promise of summer. In the chair opposite Angmar’s, Laz had been basking in the heat like the cats, who lay scattered on the floor, each in a patch of sun.

“Should I leave you?” Laz said to Mara.

“Nah, nah, nah, for I would hear your advice about this.” Mara hesitated briefly. “I did have the strangest sensation just now. It were hope, a sudden hope, like the sun coming in the window here. And I thought, mayhap we’ll go home soon.”

“Be you sure?” Angmar leaned forward a little in her chair.

“I be not, Mam, and I’d not have you put too much upon it. But then, I’d not dismiss it, either. I did think, mayhap my teacher here might tell us somewhat about it.”

“I’m not sure there’s much to tell,” Laz said. “Was this like a dream, or even a daydream?”

“It were not, just a sudden flood of feeling. I did go tell Avain about it, but she did make me no answer.”

“My sweet,” Angmar said, “Avain understands little unless it come to her as pictures in the water.”

“Then her silence means naught.” Mara glanced at Laz. “It were for that moment or two a glorious feeling.”

“Did you feel that it came from outside your self?” Laz said.

“I did, truly, but I did see no spirits about or suchlike.”

“Then it might have come from far away, through some powerful dweomer.” Laz raised a quick hand. “Note, however, that I said ‘might have,’ not ‘it most assuredly did.’ ”

“Very well. I’ll think on’t.”

Angmar sighed and settled back in her chair. The bright sun picked out the fine lines around her mouth and turned the gray in her hair to silver. She glanced out the window, then pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. When Laz followed her glance, he saw Berwynna and Dougie walking among the apple trees, holding hands, laughing together.

“Huh!” Mara snapped. “Wynni’s lout be here again!”

“So he is,” Angmar said. “I do like the lad, mind, but truly, he belongs not here. Ai, when I were young, never did I heed the warnings of my elders, and so I do suppose he be much the same.”

“Wynni should be sending him away because you did ask her to,” Mara said. “Not just because of what Avain did tell you.”

“Well, now, she does deserve a bit of merriment. She does work so hard for all of us. I think me you understand not just how much we do depend upon her labors.”

Mara wrinkled her nose at her mother, who ignored the sneer.

“My poor Wynni!” Angmar went on. “It does ache her heart, shut up here like she be.”