The Shadow Isle

by Katharine Kerr

Try though he did, he never managed to reestablish the link between them. He still had a very long way to go in his studies, he realized, and a burden of work ahead of him, no matter how clearly he saw the end result.

  For now his work lay with Gerran. When Neb returned to the lord’s chamber, he found Nicedd waiting patiently.

  “Go eat,” Neb said.

  “My thanks,” Nicedd said. “My appetite’s returned, finally. That was a grim bit of work you did. Gives a man’s stomach a turn, like.”

  Neb laughed, and Nicedd made an attempt at a smile before he hurried out. Gerran lay asleep on his stomach, his head pillowed on his folded arms. The wound still looked clean, Neb was relieved to see. The fringe of red lines around the bruise had mostly disappeared. He was considering how to bandage it when Clae returned, carrying bread and beef in a wooden bowl.

  “I told Nicedd I’d bring you dinner,” Clae said.

  His brother’s voice was tinged with fear, Neb realized, and his eyes looked up at him warily.

  “Is somewhat wrong?” Neb said.

  “Uh, Neb? That light around your hand—”

  “What light? You mean when Salamander came in with all these candles?”

  Clae hesitated, puzzled.

  “You had a long hard ride home,” Neb went on, “you must be truly tired.”

  “I am. And I was ever so worried about my lord.” Clae thought this through for a long moment. “You know, I think I was seeing things that weren’t there.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s naught to be ashamed of. Here, when I’ve done eating, I’m going to bandage up the wound. You and Gerran both will feel better once I’m done.”

  On the morrow Salamander did as the gwerbret asked and brought pabrus and ink up to his private chamber. What Ridvar dictated was curt, though to the point. Since Ridvar couldn’t read, Salamander took the liberty of expanding the message into something more well-bred though not flowery. Ridvar put it into a silver tube, sealed it with wax and his signet ring, then handed it back to his temporary scribe.

  “See that this gets sent straightaway,” Ridvar said. “Give it to my captain, and he’ll pick the messengers.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace, but if I may make a suggestion, Lord Mirryn and his men are leaving later in the day—”

  “Splendid!” Ridvar broke in. “That will save my men the journey. ”

  Salamander was just gathering up his supplies when Lady Drwmigga appeared in the doorway of the bedchamber. He bowed to her, and she favored him with a smile.

  “Our thanks,” she said, then shot her husband a glance.

  “Indeed,” Ridvar said. “Our thanks.”

  Salamander reminded himself to tell Branna that while Drwmigga did have her bovine qualities, she at least knew how to prod her husband into courtesy, which boded as well for the future of the rhan as did her obvious fertility.

  When he came downstairs, Salamander saw Daralanteriel sitting at the honor table with Voran, Mirryn, and Calonderiel. Salamander stopped to mention that Ridvar wanted to send for Gerran’s wife, though he left out any mention of the apology. Mirryn readily agreed to take the message back to the Red Wolf dun.

  “I’ll send a letter to Dalla at the same time,” Dar said. “She and her women can come with Solla. Here, Mirryn, take Vantalaber and five archers with you, will you? They can escort the women back and spare you the journey.”

  “My thanks, Your Highness, “ Mirryn said. “I’ll do just that.” Dar turned to Salamander. “Ah, I see you’ve got pens and the like with you.”

  “I don’t need to write a letter,” Salamander said in Elvish. “I can just tell her.”

  “True,” Dar answered in the same, “but it’s for the sake of appearances, or do you want everyone in the Red Wolf dun wondering why Dalla’s leaving?”

  “Right enough.” Salamander sat down with a sigh. “I’ll write it out now.”

  Once he’d handed the messages over to Mirryn, Salamander went looking for Neb. He found him up in Gerran’s chamber with something of a crowd. In the curve of the wall near the window, Canna and her children sat on some worn, thin cushions placed on a tattered bit of carpet. The younger daughter looked up when Salamander came in and smiled at him. She was too young, Salamander supposed, to understand the full import of what had happened to her family. The elder lass stared straight out at nothing. Canna herself seemed too exhausted to notice his arrival. The baby slept in his mother’s arms, so soundly that Salamander assumed Canna or another woman in the dun had been able to nurse him at last.

  Nicedd, Clae, and the Horsekin prisoner Sharak were all sitting on the floor at the foot of the narrow bed while Gerran perched on a high stool. Neb was examining the raw wound. On the bed nearby lay clean bandages, folded from rags, while at his feet lay filthy ones. Although Salamander knew nothing of the healer’s craft, he did notice that no smell of contagion hung in the air.

  “How fares our Falcon’s wing?” Salamander said. “You look a good bit better this morn, Gerro.”

  “I feel better,” Gerran said. “Now that I’ve survived what Neb did to me.”

  “I’ll admit that it was a bit rough,” Neb said. “But it looks to me like the mead washed out the corrupted humors. That was the most important thing.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean by that,” Gerran said.

  “Have you ever watched someone make cheese?” Neb said. “You fill a bowl with fresh sweet milk, then stir in some rennet. In a few hours, the whole bowl is sour and curdled. Well, the dirt in your wound turned some of your blood into a substance much like rennet. If the curdling had spread—”

  “Never mind,” Gerran said. “I understand now. No need for the details.”

  “Very well. Now I’m going to bandage it up again. Do your best not to move that arm. Clae, you’re going to have to cut up your lordship’s meat for him, help him dress, and the like.”

  Clae nodded his agreement. Gerran muttered something foul under his breath.

  “The cursed bandages itch,” Gerran said, more loudly. “And I don’t need my meat cut up like a child’s.”

  “You’ll have to endure it,” Neb said with a snap in his voice. “Do you want to be able to parry with a shield again?”

  Gerran made a sour face and nodded a yes.

  “If that wound doesn’t heal quickly and cleanly,” Neb went on, “it’ll leave a huge scar, and that scar will pull every time you lift somewhat heavy on the arm, like a shield.”

  “Oh, well and good, then.”

  “Clae will have help soon,” Salamander joined in. “His grace has sent a message off to your wife, Gerran, inviting her here to take care of you.”

  “Oh, ye gods!” Gerran snapped. “I don’t want her riding—”

  “Gerro,” Neb interrupted, “she’s a tough northern lass, and she’s not even that far gone with child.”

  Gerran’s expression turned even more sour.

  “The perfect wife for a tough northern lord,” Salamander said. “She can always borrow that mother’s saddle Dalla was using. Dalla and the rest will be coming with her, and then, alas, my Falcon, we’ll be leaving you and heading west.” He glanced Neb’s way. “With Govvin butchered on his own altar, Voran’s lawsuit has become rather more than superfluous, as the justiciar himself remarked this very morn.”

  “They won’t be needing me as a witness, then,” Neb said. “I’ll teach Solla how to deal with this injury when she gets here, and then I’ll return to the prince’s camp.”

  As another consequence of the end of the lawsuit, Daralanteriel decided to remove all his people from the gwerbret’s dun with the exception of Gerran and his pack of dependents. Since he wanted Gerran to save his wife’s recovered inheritance for the building of the Falcon dun, Dar gave Lord Blethry a horse—a silver-gray gelding—in fee to feed his vassal and his vassal’s people for as long as necessary. He also handed Nicedd some coins for his part in the battle. The silver dagger professed such fulsome gratitude t
hat Salamander could assume Dar had given him far too much.

  “What did you just hand over?” Salamander said in Elvish.

  “Just some coins I had from the trading last autumn,” Dar said. “A couple of silver ones and a bunch of coppers.”

  “Dar, you’re going to have to learn about money and the handling of money.”

  “Ai! I suppose you’re right. Another blasted thing to worry about!”

  Before they left the dun, Salamander had one last detail to attend to. He wanted their Gel da’Thae allies to question Sharak, but as Gerran’s prisoner, the lad would stay with him. Salamander had some coin of his own. He told Gerran what he had in mind, then made a great show of buying Sharak from him. Neb had already reset the boy’s wrist and hand with proper wooden splints.

  “I’ll teach you some marketplace tricks,” Salamander told Sharak in a mix of Deverrian and Horsekin, “once that all heals.”

  Sharak nodded and stared at the floor without speaking. Salamander doubted if the lad had really understood much, but since Sharak followed him out to the ward readily enough, he must have recognized Salamander as his new owner. When the pages and grooms brought out their horses, Salamander had Sharak mount up behind him. In a disorganized procession Dar led his men through Cengarn to the camp in the meadow below the town. Dar waved Salamander up to ride beside him.

  “Pir came with us,” Dar said. “Shall we have him talk to the prisoner?”

  “I’d rather not put any more strain on Pir’s loyalty to you,” Salamander said. “It’s been hard on him, this business of helping us in our war on his fellow Gel da’Thae. Besides, when Grallezar gets here, she’ll know all the right questions. She understands the way they structure their armies and the like.”

  “Very well, then. We’ll wait.”

  Besides Pir, of course, there were other Gel da’Thae men with the alar. When Salamander asked them, they took charge of Sharak, who was just about the same age as Vek, but he noticed, as the day wore on, that they gave him brusque orders and made him wait to eat until everyone else had finished. In their eyes, too, he was a slave.

  Some hours after noon, Prince Voran, with all his men and his retinue, joined the alar down in the meadow. Salamander escorted the prince to Dar’s tent.

  “We’ll be leaving on the morrow,” Voran told Dar. “I can’t say that I’m eager to get back to Cerrgonney, but duty is duty. I decided that we’d eaten enough of Ridvar’s provisions. He’ll need to bring his warband up to full strength, and his vassals will need to do the same, with the Horsekin raiding along the border.”

  “Just so,” Dar said. “I wonder how many raiding parties they sent out? Huh, those men that broke through our lines—they’ll have an interesting tale to tell their officers if they manage to rejoin the main force. I hope hearing it makes them shit into their boots.”

  Voran laughed and nodded. “Me, too. Now, if Lady Grallezar can get more information out of that Horsekin prisoner, I’d very much appreciate your sharing it with me.”

  “Of course. You’ll be in—”

  “Gwingedd. It’s the westernmost town in Cerrgonney, but still a long ride from your border. Well, I’ll be returning to Cengarn in late summer. If the news isn’t urgent, it can wait till then.”

  News, however, arrived that very evening. Just as the sun was touching the western horizon, the silver wyrm flew in. Downriver from the camp and its nervous horses, the dragon met with the princes, Voran’s captain Caenvyr, and Calonderiel for a council of war. Salamander tagged along on the pretense of acting as a scribe, since Neb was staying in the dun to tend Gerran’s wound.

  The dragon lay in the soft grass with his hind legs tucked under him and his forepaws neatly folded at his chest. In the silky twilight he seemed to glimmer, like a full moon, perhaps, shining among the green. The men stood around his enormous head, though Voran kept well back, more than glad, apparently, to let Daralanteriel speak for both of them.

  “Rori, it’s a good thing we agreed to meet here,” Dar said. “We won’t be returning to the Red Wolf dun.”

  “Very well,” Rori said. “Where will you be heading next?”

  “West to Twenty Streams Rock, and then perhaps north up to the edge of the tablelands, depending on the grazing. Then maybe west again, assuming it’s safe to do so.”

  “With luck it will be. I saw an army, all right. They’re Horsekin, not Gel da’Thae, so they must have come down from the far north.”

  “I take it they’re heading south.”

  “They are. I followed them for some days, keeping out of their sight. Here’s the interesting thing. They had about five hundred horsemen, some spearmen, some archers—a sizable amount of men, truly—but the baggage train was far larger than they’d need for themselves. Riding with it were a lot of important-looking men who weren’t armed, and then straggling behind were a troop of chained slaves.”

  Voran came closer with an acknowledging nod the dragon’s way. “What I don’t understand is what they hope to gain. Aren’t the Northlands mostly wilderness, except for the Gel da’Thae towns and the like?”

  “For now they are,” Rori said. “Wilderness can be turned into farmland quick enough. We destroyed Zakh Gral, so now they’ll have to start all over, if they want a fortress near the Westlands. No doubt they thought we’d never know if they built one out there.”

  “Of course!” Voran said. “The slaves—they’re there to do the heavy work of building walls.”

  Dar cursed under his breath.

  “This lot may not be building the fortress itself,” Rori continued. “It doesn’t seem like they have enough men for that, truly.”

  “They could be setting up a base camp for a push farther south,” Voran said. “If they’re going to build a new fortress, they’ll have to move a lot of men and materials south to the site.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Then those raiders we just thwarted were most likely sent as a feint, a move to keep us watching the border and not farther north.”

  “An excellent point, Your Highness.” The dragon inclined his massive head in Voran’s direction. “Now, I intend to find out what they’re doing, but I won’t leave you unguarded. Arzosah will be joining you in a few days to keep a watch as you travel. I’ll rest here tonight, then fly north again.”

  “My sincere thanks. We need to know what the wretched scum are up to, because I have an ally in the northwest.” Dar glanced at Calonderiel. “One we need to warn at the very least.”

  “True spoken,” Calonderiel said. “Cerr Cawnen.”

  "We’ll be leaving on the morrow,” Mic said. "I’ve made all the arrangements with Aethel.”

  "Splendid!” Berwynna said. “If Cerr Cawnen’s as interesting as Lin Serr, I can hardly wait to see it.”

  PART III

  THE NORTHLANDS SUMMER, 1160

  Each element of the four—Fire, Air, Water, and Earth— has its particular virtues and its vices. Thus the Mountain Folk are steadfast yet grasping, the Westfolk clever yet cold to those unlike them. Only in the Children of Aethyr do all the elements mix. This means that while our race can serve the Light to a greater degree than most, we also have the greatest propensity of all for furthering the Darkness.

  —The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

  LORD MIRRYN LED HIS MEN back from Cengarn on a day washed with summer rain. Dallandra was sitting in the women’s hall, watching Solla and Adranna spinning wool with Branna’s device, when she heard the gatekeeper’s horn, a joyous blast of notes. Solla let go of the spinner’s handle and jumped up to rush to the window. She laid both hands on the sill and looked out, then turned back, her face pale and her eyes wide.

  “Mirro and the men are in the ward,” she said, “but not my lord, and Daumyr’s got a cut on his face.”

  Dallandra got to her feet and hurried over to catch Solla’s hand. Solla was trembling, and she looked up at Dallandra with the eyes of a frightened child.

  “Let’s go down,” Dallandra said. “Ther
e will be messages, but I’m sure as I can be that Gerran’s safe and well.”

  Since Salamander had already told her the news, Dallandra had solid grounds for that certainty, not that she could tell Solla. Hand in hand they hurried down the stairs and reached the great hall just as Mirryn came striding in. He paused halfway to the table of honor and bowed to the two women.

  “Gerro’s safe in Cengarn, Solla,” Mirryn called out. “He’s injured, truly, but it’s not much as long as he doesn’t ride and suchlike. ”

  Solla smiled and laid her free hand over her heart as if bidding it to be still. The color in her cheeks slowly returned to a normal pink from pale. She squeezed Dallandra’s hand, then let it go with a whispered, “My thanks.”

  “What’s all this, lad?” At the table of honor Cadryc got to his feet. “Trouble?”

  “There was, Your Grace.” Mirryn reached inside his shirt and brought out two silver message tubes. “Horsekin raiders on the border.” Mirryn allowed himself a brief smile. “They’ve been dealt with.”

  The Red Wolf men, followed by six Westfolk archers, were filing into the hall. Daumyr, who indeed had a long scabbing cut on one cheek, bowed to the tieryn. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon and all for interrupting,” Daumyr said, “but you should know that our captain acquitted himself cursed well on the field. Prince Dar commended him.”

  Cadryc grinned, beaming like the smile in the full moon. “That’s my lad!” He glanced around and saw a servant lass. “Mead all round, lass! Bring it fast!”

  The lass scurried off to do his bidding. Mirryn handed Solla the messages. “The one with your brother’s seal is for you alone,” Mirryn said. “Interesting things happened in Dun Cengarn.”

  Since Dallandra already knew everything in those messages and more, she left the tieryn’s household to their celebration and went back upstairs to her chamber. Judging by the ache in her breasts, she judged that Dari was due for a feeding. Sure enough, she came in to see Sidro carrying a squalling baby as she walked back and forth, singing in a vain effort to distract Dari from her hunger.