Katharine Kerr - The Shadow Isle

‘Somewhere west of Eldidd,’ Salamander said. ‘I can’t tell exactly where, I’m afraid, because they’re out in open country.’

‘Is there anything but open country west of Eldidd?’ Gerran said.

‘There’s not, and that, indeed, is the problem. Here, give me a while, and I may be able to tell you more.’

‘Well and good, then, and my thanks.’

They walked back inside together, but Salamander left the lord at the table of honour and hurried upstairs to his wedge-shaped chamber high up in the broch. He barred the door, then sat down on the wide stone sill of the window. The sharp west wind drifted in, bringing with it the stink of the stables below. Salamander rummaged under his shirt, brought out a pomander, made of an apple dried with Bardek spices, and inhaled the scent.

From his perch he could see over the stables and the dun wall both to the meadows beyond, pale green with the first grass. The clouds had drifted a little further towards zenith and grown larger as well. He focused on the white billows and thought of Dallandra. He saw the royal alar again, stopped in a swirl of riders and animals. Some of the men had dismounted and were strolling towards the various travois. Apparently they were going to set up the tents. In the vision Salamander realized that the western sky had already clouded over. Some distance from the alar ran a river. It looked to him like the Cantariel, but since it wound through flat meadowland like so many rivers did out in the grasslands, he couldn’t be sure. Dallandra was standing at the riverbank and watching muddy water flow. He sent his mind out toward hers.

It took her some moments to respond. He could pick up her emotional state, a blend of annoyance and physical discomfort. Finally she acknowledged him with a wordless sense of welcome and a wave of one hand.

‘Are you ill?’ Salamander thought to her. ‘Have you been hurt?’

He focused in on the image of her face. She looked pale, and dark smudges marred the skin under her eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m merely pregnant, and I spent the day on horseback. It’s not a happy combination.’

‘I can easily contact you later –’

‘No, no, I’ve been meaning to speak with you. I need to ask you something. It’s about Nevyn. You knew him well, didn’t you?’

‘I certainly did, oft times to my severe distress and humiliation. The old man had the horrid habit of always being right, especially when it came to my faults, flaws, mistakes, and general ill-doings.’

He could feel Dallandra’s amusement as clearly as he would have heard her laughter had they been together. ‘Was he stubborn?’ she said.

‘Very. Like the proverbial bull in a warm stable. Getting him outside on a winter’s day was a most formidable task. Is Neb giving you trouble?’

‘Aha, you guessed! I’m worried, really. He seems to want to shed his current personality and just turn back into Nevyn. Yet when I try to speak with him about it, I can feel his mind close up.’

‘This sounds dangerous.’

‘It is. Once the child’s born, my attention’s bound to be divided. I should have apprenticed him to Grallezar, I suppose, and taken Branna on myself, but at the time it seemed a better match this way.’

‘I thought you made the right decision then, and I still do.’

‘Thank you. At times I have trouble remembering why I made it.’ She paused, and he received the general impression of a jumble of thoughts. ‘It was because of the healing lore, I think. He seemed to want to learn that as well, and Grallezar has none.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help? I can easily take him through some of the work.’

‘If he’ll listen to you, and he’d blasted well better!’ Her image smiled in relief. ‘If nothing else, you can keep an eye on him for me.’

‘Gladly, and if he won’t listen to me, I’ll smack him a good one.’ He flexed one arm. ‘We mountebanks and jugglers have strong muscles, you know.’

Dallandra laughed, and the sense of relief strengthened.

‘I may hold you to that,’ she said. ‘But how are you? You sound well.’

‘I am indeed, having survived another miserable winter. I was wondering, oh princess of powers perilous, where you and the royal alar might be.’

‘Still in the Westlands, but ultimately we’re heading for the Red Wolf dun.’

‘Splendid! I’ve got news for our prince. There’s a message waiting for him here from Prince Voran. His royal self sounded more than a little put out that he didn’t know where to send the message, too. He wants Dar to meet him in Cengarn to discuss some mysterious matter.’

‘How odd! I’ll tell Dar, certainly, but we’re going to stop along the way. He wants to visit Lord Samyc, since he’s Samyc’s overlord now.’

‘Ah, I see. However, if he could send Cadryc a letter, announcing his most regal plans, it would set at rest both Cadryc’s mind and that of Prince Voran.’

‘I’ll have him do that. Neb can write it, and it’ll do him good to earn his keep.’

Salamander laughed under his breath. ‘How far away are you?’

‘A good long way. We’re travelling up the Cantariel.’ Dalla paused briefly, calculating. ‘We’re maybe a couple of hundred miles from the coast. Well, maybe a little more, closer to two hundred and a half, say. I can’t be any more sure than that.’

‘Of course. In vision it looks like you’re west of Eldidd.’

‘We are. The travelling seems to drag on and on, somehow, but perhaps I’m just tired. It’s a good thing we started as early in the year as we did, or we wouldn’t reach you till high summer. As it is, we should get there some while before. Curse it all, at moments I wish Meranaldar were still riding with us! He could be a bore, but he knew how to mark out time.’

‘Eventually we all will, oh mistress of mighty magicks, whether we want to or not. Such things always seem to matter in towns, and towns, alas, lie in our destiny. If naught else, having a royal dun would let his peers know where to send Dar letters.’

While the absent Meranaldar might have known how to mark out time, someone arrived at the Westfolk camp not long after who understood space and distances. Just as the alar was pitching the tents for a night’s rest, the silver wyrm flew in, circling high over the camp, then landing a good half a mile off to avoid panicking the horses. Dalla took her sack of medicinals and hurried out to meet him.

The dragon lay down to allow Dallandra to examine his wound, a thin pink stripe on his silvery-blue side. When she’d first been treating it, she’d cut a piece of leather, boiled it with wax to keep it from stretching, and marked the length of the cut upon it. When she measured the cut against the marked strip, she found the wound the same length as before. Although it looked pink and clean, it still opened into flesh, not scar tissue.

‘Rori, you’ve been licking it!’ Dallandra said.

‘I have not!’

‘Then why hasn’t it healed up?’

‘Arzosah tells me that dragons heal as slowly as they grow, but truly, she’s as puzzled as you are.’

‘Especially slowly, I imagine, when the dragon’s not done what the healer asked of him.’

‘I swear it, Dalla, I’ve not licked it or scratched it or rubbed it against anything. Well, once by accident I did rub it against a rock, but it hurt so much I made sure I’d never do it again.’

Dallandra set her hands on her hips and glared at him. He raised his head and glared right back.

‘At least it’s not bleeding,’ Dallandra said. ‘Does it ever?’

‘No,’ Rori said. ‘But it’s driving me daft, itching itching itching! Ye gods, sometimes I’m tempted to lick it, I have to admit. It’s worse to itch than to ache, I swear it.’