The Shadow Isle (25 page)

“What’s all this with Neb?” Gerran said. “Or can you tell me?”

“I promised him I’d keep most of this in confidence,” Salamander said. “Let’s just say he’s generally unhappy with his lack of progress in his apprenticeship.”

“I still don’t understand why he’d go off on his own.”

“I think he may have been entertaining the idea of finding another master of his craft.”

“Indeed?” Mirryn put in. “That’s a serious thing, isn’t it? The scribes’ guild must have rules and suchlike against it.”

“It most assuredly does,” Salamander said. “I truly shouldn’t tell you much more than that.”

“We won’t pry, don’t worry,” Gerran said. “Do you think he’ll bolt again?”

“I doubt it. If he does, Clae’s promised to come tell me. He’ll be sharing a bed with his brother during this stay. Oth’s put them in the broch itself, not in the servants’ quarters out by the barracks, thanks to Neb being a witness against Govvin. Which reminds me, Gerro. Why did you ask me to hold my tongue around Oth?”

“Because Branna told me to stay on guard when it comes to him. I’ll be bringing the matter of Solla’s inheritance to Prince Voran, not to the gwerbret.”

“I see. It’s usually a good idea to listen when Branna delivers one of her pronouncements. They may sound daft, mad, or just plain confused, but they contain truths.” Salamander yawned and shook his head. “Well, I’d best get off to bed, and doubtless you both want to do the same.”

“I’ll admit to being tired.” Gerran glanced at Mirryn. “What about you?”

Mirryn hesitated, appeared to be thinking something through, then shrugged. “I’d best leave before the city guards shut the gates.”

Mirryn strode off downhill to join the encampment outside the city walls, while Salamander headed off to the barracks. Gerran went back inside to drink with the prince and the gwerbret as courtesy demanded.

"So,” Neb said. "It gladdens my heart that we’ll get to spend a bit more time with each other while we’re here.”

"Mine, too,” Clae said. “It was decent of Oth to let me stay in the broch with you.” He glanced around the bedchamber. “It’s so quiet here, though, not like the barracks.”

“Think you’ll be able to sleep without all that snoring?”

“Oh, no doubt.” Clae grinned at him. “Being a page tires you out, what with my lord’s horses to tend and all that.”

They lay awake for some time that night, sharing a bed as they always had in their father’s house. Clae talked about the things he’d done and learned during the winter; Neb told him details of how the Westfolk lived and avoided the subject of his own experiences. Soon enough Clae fell asleep, but tired though he was, Neb stayed awake with humiliation for a bitter companion.

The worst of it, he decided, was the way Salamander had guessed exactly what he was going to do—ride away from his master and his wife both and try to find another master of dweomer to take him on. He’d brought his supply of herbs along to sell in order to get the coin for his journey. Now, he supposed, he needn’t have bothered, since that chattering fool had found him out.

Salamander’s remark about colts eaten by wolves stung most of all.
I know all about dark dweomer,
Neb thought.
The last thing I’d ever do is join up with that lot of deformed scum!
He was sure that he knew a great deal more about many things than either Salamander or Dallandra gave him credit for. Over the winter he’d meditated upon the correct symbols to open the treasure-house of images. Hard work, but he’d remembered more and more of Nevyn’s long life, the dweomer knowledge he’d had, the power he’d commanded, all of it out of Neb’s reach but easily in sight.

Those cursed women!
It was no wonder, he reflected, that Branna was learning so much so easily while he stumbled along behind. Dallandra and Grallezar, even Valandario, favored her shamelessly— or so he believed. And then, of course, there were her dreams, filled with memories and lore. Although she denied it, Neb was convinced that Branna looked down on him because he’d had to work so hard to retrieve his own past life from the astral while her knowledge came effortlessly.

Round and round his mind went, rehearsing grievances.
Who am I?
he wondered.
Nevyn was the Master of the Aethyr—why can’t I have the same position?
He knew full well that he’d have to work to regain such exalted powers, but somehow he’d not expected the work to take so long. Branna remembered Jill so clearly, and she seemed to him to be speeding through her apprenticeship whilst he dragged along behind.
It’s not fair!

Even his meditations upon Nevyn’s life fell short, in Neb’s opinion. He would try to recover some bit of dweomerlore only to feel his mind wandering off to other things, mostly images of herbs, blooming along roadways, or of sick children, drinking out of a cup as Nevyn held it for them. Memories of warriors, cut and bleeding, disrupted his attempts to call upon the Lords of the Wildlands as once Nevyn had done. Every now and then he considered stopping his study of the healer’s craft. Maybe then those intrusive memories would die away. But every time he stopped, some question would nag at him until he took it up again.

The herbcraft would come in handy, he supposed, when he left the Westfolk. Eventually he’d make his escape. He would simply take Branna with him. He wasn’t sure why he was so determined to leave, except that it annoyed him to see Branna so at home among these alien lives, while he struggled on behind, trying to learn Elvish as fast as she—

“Oh, stop it!” he whispered aloud. “You’re being stupid!”

He heard the dun’s watchmen calling out the mid-mark of the night before he finally fell asleep, only to dream of finding Brangwen’s dead body on the river sand, sodden, wide-eyed but unseeing, her deathly-pale skin touched by the rising sun. In the dream he heard Rhegor’s voice once again, saying, “You failed her, lad.”

Neb woke covered in cold sweat to find the room bright with sunlight and Clae gone. He sat up and perched on the edge of the high bed to run his hands through his sweaty hair.

“You can’t leave her,” he said aloud. “A vow’s a vow.”

As he thought about Branna, it seemed to him that he could see her, standing in the women’s hall in a pair of woad-blue dresses, her hair swept back in a flowered scarf. His thought formed without his willing it:
I love you, Branni.
Her thought floated back to him:
I love you, too, but you shouldn’t be doing this working without Dalla’s permission.
Neb jumped to his feet and growled, a sound so like a dog that it startled him.
Stupid wretched females!
His yellow gnome materialized, took one good look at him, then vanished again. In a foul mood Neb dressed, then went downstairs to find some breakfast, growling to himself all the way.

With no dreams that troubled him, Gerran slept till a few hours after dawn. He lay in bed, yawning, and was just considering getting up when someone knocked on his chamber door. Clae darted in without waiting to be asked.

“My lord?” Clae said. “There’s a silver dagger down at the gates.”

“Indeed?” Gerran said. “What—”

“The gatekeeper wasn’t even going to let him in, but I told him to wait just outside for a while. We don’t have anyone in our warband, and so I thought—”

“Right you are! I’ll get dressed and go down. Tell him to keep waiting.”

The silver dagger turned out to be a tall fellow with broad shoulders and the long arms of a swordsman. Under a thatch of dirty brown hair his face was hollow-cheeked and touched with a certain paleness about the mouth. He revealed no emotion whatsoever when Gerran allowed him inside the walls for a chat. His horse, a chestnut gelding, looked well cared for, with healthy legs and hooves. As the silver dagger knelt before him, Gerran had the odd feeling he’d seen him before, but he couldn’t place where.

“What brings you out here to Arcodd?” Gerran said.

“Horsekin, my lord,” the silver dagger said. “I heard about last summer’s fighting and figured there might be a hire for me.”

“You’re right enough, but I can’t pay you much beyond your keep.”

“If we don’t see any fighting, my keep will be pay enough. If we do, you can decide what I’m worth then.”

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“A while.” His pale mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “I spent my last copper on oats for my mount. We ran out of those last night.”

“Well, I might have a hire for you, I might not, but I can stand you a meal at least.”

“My thanks, my lord.” This time he did smile. “May I ask your lordship’s name?”

“Gerran of the Gold Falcon. And you are?”

“Nicedd, my lord, from Pren Cludan, over in Cerrgonney.” He scrambled up and busied himself with brushing the dirt off the knees of his brigga. “I’d beg you not to ask me why I left it.”

“I don’t go prying into silver daggers’ personal affairs.” Gerran glanced around and found Clae waiting nearby. “Take this lad down to the encampment,” he said to the page, “and ask Lord Mirryn to feed him and his horse both and keep him in the warband. Who knows? We might have a hire for him eventually.”

“Done, my lord.” Clae turned to the silver dagger. “I’ll ride behind you on the way down.”

As they mounted up, Gerran noticed that the saddlebags at the saddle’s pommel had once borne a leather blazon. Nicedd had taken off the patch, but its shadow remained, dark against the faded leather of the bags themselves, the outline of a wolf. He’d once ridden for some distant relation of Tieryn Cadryc’s, then, a member of the ancient and conjoint clan of the Wolves, white and red.

Gerran returned to the great hall and the table of honor. As he was sitting down, Salamander trotted over to join him.

“Where’s Prince Dar?” Gerran said.

“Off in the stables with our host the gwerbret,” Salamander said. “I gather that discussing horses is somewhat of a ritual among the noble-born.”

“It is, truly.” Gerran glanced around. “What about our scribe?”

“He seemed much subdued this morning at breakfast. I think me he’s thought better of the various follies that he stood on the brink of committing.”

“Good. You know, I’d forgotten that Mirryn doesn’t know about Neb’s real craft.”

“I had, too. Well, he assumed we were talking about a scribal guild, so all is well.”

“Just so. Once Prince Voran gets himself here, Neb will have his testimony against Govvin to keep him busy. Has Ridvar summoned the priests yet, or do you know?”

“I generally know what there is to know.” Salamander paused for a grin. “Because the dun’s lasses generally have overheard it and then tell me. His grace has sent two summons. The first Govvin ignored. The second he answered, saying he might well come here to deliver his opinion on the matter, if the omens were favorable or some such thing. So we’re waiting for him to arrive, or perhaps it might be more accurate to say that we’re waiting to see if he arrives. ”

“It all boils down to waiting,” Gerran said.

“True spoken. I take it that vexes you?”

“It does. If the old man doesn’t get himself here soon, I say we ride out and fetch him, priest or not. He didn’t strike me as particularly holy.”

“Me, either, and indeed, fetching him is exactly what we might do, once Voran gets here.” Salamander paused, glancing around the great hall. “Speaking of annoyances, have you seen Neb just now?”

“I have. He was going into one of the side brochs. When I hailed him, he said he wanted to talk with one of the chirurgeons.”

“I hope he’s not unwell. I’ll go look for him.” With a wave Salamander strode off.

Gerran watched him go, then accepted a bowl of porridge from a hovering servant lass. He reminded himself that even though he hated sitting around doing nothing, he had no choice in the matter.

Raddyn, the head chirurgeon of Dun Cengarn, was a stick-thin man with several day’s growth of gray beard and narrow dark eyes. He lived in a chamber high up in one of the slender towers that nestled next to the main broch of Dun Cengarn. Apparently he was unmarried, because a narrow bed, a stool, a square table, and a vast amount of clutter made up its furnishings. Raddyn fished and rummaged among the heaps of dirty clothes, candle ends, and small bags of unrecognizable things until he found the leather-bound book, as long as Neb’s forearm and reeking of mold.

“Here you go.” Raddyn laid it down on the table, which wobbled under the weight.

“My thanks,” Neb said. “I much appreciate this.”

“What I don’t understand is why a scribe wants to look at a book like this. It describes medicaments, not letters.”

“I come from Trev Hael. That plague or somewhat like it is mentioned in here. I’m wondering if it explains how the thing spread so fast.”

“Ah. Well, corrupted humors, as usual, would be my judgment.”

“But how do they get from one person to another? I mean, I can understand if a person with an excess of watery humors becomes ill. But why should the person next door or the wife who’s sharing his bed then become ill in turn?”

Raddyn shrugged with a look of profound regret. “If I knew that,” he said, “I’d be serving down in the king’s court, not moldering up here with our miserly gwerbret.”

“One person’s corrupted humors must corrupt the next one’s. Somehow.”

“No doubt. ’How’ is indeed the question. You know, sometimes I wish I were but a scribe like you.” Raddyn turned away and perched on the stool. “Ye gods, it drives me half mad sometimes, how little we know!”

He leaned over sideways, rummaged in the clutter a bit more, and pulled out a leather bottle. When he unstoppered it, Neb caught the smell of mead.

The scribe who’d copied the book of Bardekian lore had done a splendid job, writing in a clear large hand that could be read easily by candlelight. He’d left wide margins, too, which generations of chirurgeons had filled with notes about their successes or failures with the various herbs. One set of notes, concerning ulcerations of the stomach, struck Neb as oddly familiar, even though they weren’t in Nevyn’s hand. He turned back to the first page and found a list of men who’d owned the book, but none of the names jogged his memory.