The Shadow Isle

by Katharine Kerr

  On the morrow the rain slacked. A wind sprang up from the south and brought not warmth but the promise of it as it drove the clouds from the sky. Prince Daralanteriel gave the order to his royal alar to break camp. Besides his wife, Carra, and their children, the prince traveled with his banadar or warleader, his bard, his dweomermasters, and a hundred warriors, most of them archers, along with their wives and children, or in the case of the women archers, their husbands and children. Getting this mob on the road took time.

  Besides the crowd of Westfolk, the alar traveled with herds of horses, flocks of sheep, and packs of dogs, trained for herding or hunting. Although the People were adept at packing up their goods, their livestock, and their tents, by the time they got moving along the predetermined route, the sun would be well on its way to midday. They’d travel until some hours before sunset, when everyone would stop to allow the stock to graze before nightfall. In the short days of winter’s end, they managed perhaps ten miles a day.

  Dallandra thanked the Star Goddesses for the slow pace. She was too pregnant to ride astride. Walking would have tired her after a few miles, and sitting on a travois to be dragged along would have shaken her bones and the baby both. With the ground still saturated from the winter rains, using a wagon would have been out of the question even if the Westfolk had possessed such a thing. Fortunately, Grallezar had a solution.

  “Among my people,” the Gel da’Thae said, “we have a thing called a mother’s saddle. It be long from pommel to cantle, and both stirrups, they hang on one side.”

  “I saw something similar in Deverry,” Dallandra said. “I’d be afraid to use one. What if something frightens my horse, and it tries to throw me? I couldn’t get free in time to save myself and the child.”

  “With Pir leading your horse, think you it will spook at shadows? ”

  Dallandra grinned at her. “I’d forgotten about Pir. Do you think we can put together one of those saddles?”

  “Somewhat like it at the least.”

  It took Dallandra some days to grow used to the new saddle. She had to sit extremely straight to keep her back from hurting, which meant counterbalancing the weight of her pregnancy. She felt her posture as awkward and ugly both. By the afternoons, she wanted nothing more than to call an early halt, but with the memory of omens burning in her mouth, she set her teeth against the discomfort and said nothing. At least with the horse mage walking along beside her, she knew that she could trust her mount, who seemed to view Pir as a wiser sort of horse. A tall, lean fellow, Pir’s dark hair hung in an odd style all his own. He’d cropped most of it off short but left a wide stripe down the middle of his head from brow to neck that was long enough to braid like a horse’s mane. At moments, Dallandra’s mare would snuffle into the mane or onto Pir’s shoulder, as if reassuring herself that he was still there.

  The royal alar made its last camp before reaching Mandra late on a day that most definitely felt like spring. Dallandra contacted Valandario while her apprentice and some of Calonderiel’s men set up her tent.

  “We’ll arrive just after noon, I think,” Dallandra told her.

  “Very well,” Val said. “I’ll tell the mayor. The townsfolk will want to greet the prince properly.”

  “What does properly mean to them?”

  “Lots of speeches. Tell Dar to have one ready.”

  “Devaberiel’s traveling with us. The two of them can work something up.”

  “Excellent! It would be a good idea for Dar to ride into town with some sort of ceremony around him, banners, pennants that kind of thing. Does he have more than that old shabby one he took to the war?”

  “He does. Carra and some of the women have been stitching all winter long.”

  “Good. The town will like that.”

  On the morrow, the alar set out with the prince and his banadar in the lead, dressed in their best clothes and riding golden horses. Behind them came Dallandra and the royal bard, Devaberiel, also wearing what finery they owned. Next rode the archers and swordsmen, with the rest of the alar bringing up the rear with the flocks and herds. Some of the older children rode in front of the warriors and carried the banners and pennants of Daralanteriel’s royal line, embroidered and appliqued with the red rose and the seven stars of the cities of the far western mountains.

  For those last few miles, the road, a rough affair of mud and gravel, ran along the tops of the sea-cliffs. Long before they reached its walls, they came to fields of sprouting grain and orchards of young apple trees, spindly and doubtless still barren, but a promise of fruit to come. The farmers working in the fields rushed to the stone fences to call out, “The prince! The prince! Here’s to our prince!” as the alar rode on by. Daralanteriel bowed from the saddle and waved to acknowledge them all.

  At last they saw the roofs of Mandra in the distance. All around the town the wild grass still waved, a common ground for milk cows at most times, but the townsfolk had put up a temporary enclosure to keep the royal alar’s herds and flocks from wandering too close to the cliff edge. Herdsmen were waiting to help turn the stock inside the rough walls, thrown together of driftwood and stones, broken planks and branches. At the sight of the prince, the herdsmen rode out, cheering. Dar waved and smiled.

  Everything seemed to be going splendidly, in fact, until the town herdsmen began to help round up the flocks and herds following the procession. Up near the front as she was, Dallandra heard angry shouts, yells, cries of fear and alarm, but she could see nothing. Everyone halted except for the dogs, who rushed back and forth, barking. The archers and swordsmen in the middle of the line of march began to turn their horses to ride back. The entire line broke apart as riders drifted into the meadows lining the road.

  “Ye gods!” Pir said. “Those shouts—some of them be Gel da’Thae.”

  Too late, Dallandra remembered just how many Gel da’Thae rode with the alar—the men Pir had brought with him, the remnant of Grallezar’s bodyguard, and Grallezar herself. Over the winter they’d become loyal friends to the other members of the alar, but in the eyes of the refugees who’d settled Mandra, they’d be Meradan, demons, and little else. Swearing under his breath, Calonderiel turned his horse out of line and galloped back. As he passed the squads of swordsmen, he called to them to follow.

  Dallandra’s dappled gray mare danced nervously in the road and pulled at the reins. Pir laid a hand on the horse’s neck, up under her mane, and she quieted.

  “My thanks,” Dallandra said. “Can you see what’s happening back there?”

  “I can’t,” Pir said. “But the shouting’s died down.”

  Calonderiel returned shortly after with Grallezar riding beside him. Grallezar guided her stolid chestnut gelding up to Dallandra and leaned over to speak to her while Calonderiel went on to confer with Dar.

  “We Gel da’Thae,” Grallezar said, “had best avoid strife. I did tell the banadar that we be willing to camp elsewhere, up the north-running road a fair piece, say. Then when you all leave Mandra, we shall rejoin you as you pass by.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dallandra said, “I should have thought—”

  “Nah, nah, nah, we all should have thought! Be not so apologetic, my friend.” Grallezar smiled, revealing her pointed teeth. “It be no great difficulty for us to all turn out of line. Sidro, though, I would leave with you. She does look much like a Deverry woman, and she does take good care of you.”

  “True, and Vek had best stay with her in case he has another seizure.”

  “Just so.” Grallezar turned to Pir. “The mare that the Wise One rides, will she be calm enough now?”

  “I’d best walk beside her into town,” Pir said. “When she dismounts, then will I head north to join you. None will notice a mere one of us.”

  “True enough,” Grallezar said. “What is that they say in Deverry? Done, then!”

  Daralanteriel rode back along the line of march to reassure the townsfolk while Calonderiel restored order to the alar itself. The Gel da’Thae contingent
sorted out their packhorses and tents, then headed north under the grim eyes of the local herdsmen.

  When Daralanteriel rode back to his place at the head of the line, his face showed no trace of emotion, a sure sign that he was hiding some strong feeling—worry, Dalla assumed. No one had ever taught him how to rule even a small territory, since no one had ever guessed that some day he would have actual subjects in an actual town. As the procession moved forward again, Carra, his wife, urged her horse up next to his and took over the job of acknowledging his admirers. His children followed, aping their mother’s smiles and waves. Judging from the cheers, the townspeople and farmfolk lining the road were well pleased.

  At the edge of town Valandario waited. Beside her stood a tall, pale-haired man, dressed in a long tunic clasped with a distinctive broad belt, beaded in a pattern of blue circles and triangles. Valandario introduced him to the prince as the town mayor. When Daralanteriel dismounted, the mayor knelt to him.

  “Please get up,” Dar said. “There’s no use in you kneeling in cold mud.”

  The mayor laughed, then rose and launched into a speech of welcome. Other townsfolk came running to usher the prince’s retinue inside with speeches of their own. In the resulting confusion, Dallandra managed to slip away and join Valandario.

  “Let’s go to my chamber,” Val said. “It’ll be quiet there.”

  As they walked through the muddy streets, Dallandra marveled at the town around them. Out in the grass few trees grew. Traders had hauled in some timber in return for the salt that the townsfolk harvested from the sea. The farmers had dug stones from their new fields and collected driftwood from the beaches to build a strange collection of squat, thatch-roofed cottages. Most of the walls stood at odd angles; some bristled with assemblages of random driftwood. Smoke from the hearths and lime from the sea birds stained roofs and walls. Behind most houses, cows and chickens lived in shelters built of blocks of cut sod. A whiff of sewage hung in the air. Still, the men and women who lived in those houses weren’t Roundears, a marvel in itself. They’re my people, Dallandra thought, but they know things we’ve forgotten for a thousand years.

  “It’s still small,” Valandario said, “but we’re expecting several boatloads of new settlers by the autumn.”

  “We?” Dallandra asked, smiling.

  “I’ve become part of the town, yes, at least for the winters.”

  “I’m going to need you to come with us when we leave.”

  “And I’m ready to ride, or at least, I will be once I finish packing up my things. Don’t worry about that.” Val paused for a glance around. “But I’m hoping to come back in the autumn.”

  The house in which Valandario was staying was a grander affair than most, two stories high, the lower of stone, the upper of timber planks, with proper wooden shutters at every window and a slate roof. Inside the fenced yard, chickens pecked and squawked in the spring greenery. Although she couldn’t see it, Dallandra could smell a cow as well.

  “Your hosts must be prosperous people,” Dallandra said.

  “Yes, they’re the town potters,” Valandario said. “The kiln’s round back, and their shop’s on the ground floor. And Jin’s teaching some apprentices how to make pabrus, too, as well as how to throw pots.” She pointed to the side of the house. “We’ll go up the side stairs here.”

  The creaky wooden stairs led to an off-kilter door of planks laced together with rope. Val opened it and ushered Dallandra inside to the kitchen, a big room with a brick hearth at one end, a long table in the middle, and crates and barrels along a side wall. Doorways led to various rooms, including the Wise One’s. Just like her old tent, Valandario’s chamber gleamed with bright colors on the walls and on the floor. Blankets and a pile of cushions lay on the narrow bed jammed against one wall.

  “Do sit down.” Valandario waved at the bed. “You look like you could use a rest. Is the baby due soon?”

  “A pair of months.” Dallandra sat down with a sigh of gratitude. “About. I’m not sure when exactly. Probably she’ll come at the most inconvenient moment.”

  “Babies seem to, yes. I know this is practically treason to our kind, but I’m glad I never had one.”

  “Well, I’m hoping that things work out better for this soul than they did the last time he was born. I won’t abandon him this time, for one thing.”

  Valandario stared at her with abruptly cold eyes. “Are you saying that it’s Loddlaen?” Her voice dwindled to a whisper on the name.

  Too late, Dallandra remembered who had murdered Valandario’s only lover. Val stood so still that it seemed she’d stopped breathing, waiting for the answer. From outside came the noise of the inhabitants returning to their town after greeting the prince— laughter, chatter, snatches of song, the barking of dogs and the high-pitched shrieks of children.

  “I won’t lie to you,” Dallandra said at last. “Yes, it is, but she— and notice that I said she—she’ll wear a different personality this time around.”

  “Of course.” Val turned away and walked over to the window. “Forgive me!” She paused again, while the everyday noises from outside seemed to mock old griefs. “It would be a terrible thing to carry grudges from life to life,” Val said at last. “Maybe that’s one reason we don’t remember lives, so we can let old hatreds die.” Again a long pause, until the laughter and shouting had moved on. “I won’t revive mine, I promise you. The news just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry I let it slip like that. I should have prepared you—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Yet Valandario continued staring out the window. “You were gone when the murder happened. I can’t expect you to remember the particulars.” Her voice nearly broke on the word “particulars.” “It’s just that all sorts of little things have happened, just lately, to remind me of Jav.” She turned around at last. Her eyes glistened with tears. “And I still miss him. Elven lives are so long, no one stays together forever, but for us, everything ended too soon.”

  “Very much too soon, yes.”

  Val went back to her worktable. For a moment she stood, letting her fingers trail across the tooled leather cover of a volume lying there; then with a sigh she sat down in one of the two chairs standing behind it.

  “I’ve put together some interesting information about crystals.” Val’s voice was steady again. “I’ve compiled a set of notes for you. Grallezar brought us some immensely valuable books.”

  For some hours they discussed Valandario’s findings. When the light in the chamber faded, Val lit candles. Sidro came and went, bringing food and news. With warm bread came the information that Branna had gone with Grallezar and the Gel da’Thae. Chunks of roast lamb accompanied the welcome bulletin that thanks to a speech that Devaberiel had composed, Prince Daralanteriel had impressed everyone at the banquet. Along with a flask of Bardek wine for Val, Sidro reported that Calonderiel was discussing the town’s defense with the mayor and the leader of its ill-armed militia.

  Dallandra was resting on the bed in Valandario’s chamber when Sidro came in for the last time, carrying a pottery cup of boiled milk with honey for Dalla to drink. At her table Valandario had spread out her scrying cloths. Sidro noticed them and lingered for a moment.

  “I did want to ask you, Wise One,” Sidro said to Val, “if there be aught I may do to help you find Laz. I know but a little dweomer, though it would gladden my heart to learn more, but what I have I’ll happily use if it would give you any aid.”

  “Thank you,” Val said, “but I don’t know—”

  “Val,” Dallandra interrupted in Elvish, “did you know that Sidro can read and write?”

  “I didn’t, no,” Val answered in the same. “That might be useful. ”

  “It’s time to record your gem scrying.” Dallandra gave her a stern look over the rim of the cup. “The lore’s too valuable to risk losing.”

  “Oh.” Valandario looked surprised, then nodded. “Sidro,” she said in Deverrian, “there’s indeed so
mewhat you can do for me. How would you like to learn how to use these cloths and gems to search for omens?”

  “That would gladden my heart indeed.”

  “Good. I’d like you to write down what I teach you, too. Could you do that?”

  “I can, though the only letters I know be Horsekin ones.”

  “It won’t take you long to learn the Deverrian letters,” Dallandra said. “I can teach you. There’s only thirty of them.”

  “Oh, well, then!” Sidro smiled at her. “It be easy, truly.”

  “Splendid!” Valandario said. “We’ll start on the morrow, but for now, why don’t you just sit down and watch, to get an idea of the process, I mean.”

  Sidro pulled a chair up to the table and sat down while Valandario went to a hanging tent bag and brought out a leather pouch of gems. Dallandra meant to watch the lesson, but the hot milk combined with her weariness from traveling, and she fell asleep with the empty cup clasped in her hands.

  Valandario took the cup from Dallandra without waking her, set it down outside the door, then seated herself at the table next to an eager Sidro. She poured out her pouch of gems, then chose twenty for a simple reading. In the candlelight they glittered, a chaotic rainbow. A crowd of sprites appeared to dart among the glints of colored light. One settled briefly on Sidro’s hair, then darted away again.

  “We want four gems each of the five colors,” Val told her new apprentice. “They represent the elements and the Aethyr, of course.” She put the rest of the gems away. “Now, if we were considering an important matter, we’d add other colors, but this will do for now.”

  Valandario spread out the scrying cloth, a patchwork of Bardek silks, some squares embroidered with symbols, others plain. Sidro listened carefully as Val explained each symbol.

  “I’ll repeat this on the morrow,” Val said, “so you can write it down. At the simplest level, a gem that falls upon its own color represents what most people would call good fortune. It’s all based on the compatibility or incompatibility of the elements.”