The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (51 page)

Meranaldar looked up with a smile that seemed to lighten the entire room.

“Very well,” Evandar said. “What sort of information would you like?”

“Well, I—all of us—would really like to know how they escaped the destruction of the Seven Cities. Ever since Jill was here, I’ve been puzzling over that. She knew very little of the actual history.”

“Excellent! Please make me my map, and in return, I’ll bring back everything I can find out about the Great Burning. That’s what they call those days, you see.”

“And a good and true name for them it is.” Meranaldar looked away and sighed. “A very good name indeed.”

One sunny afternoon, though the snow lay thick over Cengarn, Dallandra went for a walk in the town, just to be out of the dun for a little while and no reason more. She was climbing the hill path back when she saw Evandar, standing in the shadow of a wall and waiting for her. With a laugh she ran to him and flung herself into his arms. He held her tight and kissed her.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she said. “Is it better out here, away from all the iron?”

“Somewhat, truly, but still I can’t stay long. I’ve got an errand to run.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.” He smiled with a hint of teasing; he knew perfectly very well that she was curious. “Dalla, answer me one thing. In all the Westlands, is Devaberiel Silverhand still the greatest bard?”

“As far as I know, it would be hard to find a better. Why?”

But instead of answering, he disappeared, leaving her scowling after him. Apparently she wasn’t the only one to receive a visit; later that day, when Rhodry joined her for a meager supper of bread and cheese, he remarked that Evandar had come asking him questions about Devaberiel as well.

“Did he give you a chance to ask him why?” Dalla said.

“Not much of one.” Rhodry drew his silver dagger and eyed the chunk of cheese doubtfully. “I’ll pare that mold away, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Please do.”

“So Evandar told me that someone he knows in the Southern Isles wants to know more about the Time of Burning and the Westlands. Who? say I, and why? as well. Oh, you’ll find out in good time, says he. It’s a—”

“Riddle, right?”

“Just so. I expect we’ll know when he tells us and not a heartbeat before.”

Dallandra made a sour face and watched him as he swept the parings of mold to one side of the board with his dagger. He wiped the blade clean on his shirt, then began to slice the cheese.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about the Time of Burning myself,” Dallandra said. “When the bards recited the history of the invasions, they called the invaders meradan, demons, or maybe goblins would be a better word in the Deverry tongue. A small people they said, and ugly, too.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call the Horsekin a beauty to behold, but true enough, they’re taller than I am, on an average, and from what Meer told us, their women stand as high as their men.”

“It’s puzzling. I wonder if maybe there were two groups of invaders, and it’s the small ones who were wiped out by plague.”

“Meer never mentioned that, and the gods—his and mine both—know that he’d expound upon the old days at a moment’s whim.” Rhodry divided the slices up evenly and slid her share toward her. “The only distinction he ever made was between the Gel da’Thae, the ones like him, who live in cities, and then the Horsekin proper, who travel with their herds up in the far north.”

“Just so. Well, when we get back to the Westlands, we can ask the bards ourselves.”

For a moment they ate in silence.

“I’ll not be going with you to the Westlands,” Rhodry said abruptly. “I promised Jahdo that I’d take him home to Cerr Cawnen, but after that, I’ll be heading back to the Dwarven lands.”

“Ah.” She considered her feelings for a moment and realized that she’d been expecting just this. “To hunt for Haen Marn?”

“To wait for it, more like—to sit in those desolate hills until I rot. But I promised Enj I’d come back when the wars were done.” He was studying her face. “I’m sorry, but—”

“No need for an apology.” She held up one hand flat for silence. “Haven’t we both always known that my heart belongs to Evandar?”

He smiled, relaxing.

“Just so,” he said at length. “More bread?”

“I’ll have some, and my thanks.”

Out among the elves in the Westlands, winter was a thing of rain and dark skies, not snow. When the summer days became noticeably shorter, the People began driving their herds south. By the time winter had set in they were camped at the edge of the Southern Sea, where there were ravines to shelter their encampments from the wind and enough grass in the cliff-top meadows to feed their stock until spring. Riding his gold stallion Evandar went from one to the other and asked for Devaberiel Silverhand, the bard. Eventually he found him, camped with his alar far to the west of Deverry, on a day when long rains had given over to a pale sun and a damp wind.

Evandar left his horse outside the camp and made himself invisible, then walked through the circular leather tents. Their owners stood around and talked, while children and dogs chased each other, laughing and barking, from the sheer joy of being outside at last. Devaberiel was sitting in front of his leather tent on a cut log for a chair and enjoying the sunshine, it seemed. He was a tall man, Devaberiel, with moonbeam-pale hair and long elven ears, but anyone who knew Rhodry as well as Evandar did could see the resemblance between them.

When Evandar stepped back into visibility, Devaberiel leapt to his feet with a yelp, but when he spoke, his voice held steady.

“That’s a rude way to introduce yourself,” the bard said. “Although truly, I think me we’ve met before.”

“So we have, a very long time ago, when you’d just finished your apprenticeship. I gave you a gift.”

“The rose ring.” Devaberiel turned away and spat as if the words festered in his mouth. “I’ll never forget the cursed thing.”

“What? Now whose manners need mending? That’s a fine way to treat a gift from a Guardian.”

“I don’t care. You’ve lost me two of my sons with your poisoned trinket. Isn’t that reason enough for an old man’s rage, that he’s lost two of his sons and him in need of them to cheer his last days?”

“Oh come now, you don’t look a day over three hundred!”

Devaberiel crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

“My dear bard,” Evandar went on. “I meant no harm when I gave you that dweomer-token.”

“But harm it’s brought and grief as well. Your blasted rose ring drove Rhodry far away, back into the lands of men. Come to think of it, it was your Alshandra who chased him there!”

“Imph, well, I can’t deny it, though she’s no longer my wife, I assure you. But what of the other boy?”

“When he was seeking out his brother to give him the ring, Ebañy travelled to Bardek, and there he fell in love with the woman who keeps him there still, or so I heard a long while back.”

“Ah. Well, I can’t deny that, either. But here, can’t we lay old griefs aside and—”

“No! We most emphatically cannot. What do you want with me, anyway?”

“I need lore, and I’ve been told you know the lore I need. It’s about the Great Burning.”

“Well, I have that lore, yes. I’ve collected more of it than any other bard alive, I’ll wager. But I’ll not be giving you one blasted scrap of it.”

“But it’s for the good of your people—”

“My people are a dying race, and soon I shall die with them, alone with my grief for my missing sons.” Devaberiel turned away with a sweeping gesture and laid one hand over his eyes. “I wish to see no more.”

Evandar felt like shaking him, but instead he considered what Dallandra would do in this circumstance. In Deverry, bards often performed for gifts—a jewel from a rich lord, or coins, or even a mere meal if they were down on their luck.

“Here, good bard,” Evandar said. “What if I give you a gift in return for your knowledge? What would please you?”

“Surely that’s perfectly clear by now.”

“Rhodry has a Wyrd that I can’t change, but Ebañy—now, him I can fetch home for you.”

Devaberiel let his hand fall and turned to him with a smile.

“Done, then,” the bard said. “Bring my son home safe and sound, and I’ll tell you everything I know about the Great Burning.”

“Very well, then. We have a bargain, you and I.”

Evandar held one hand up, palm up, in the ancient elven manner, and Devaberiel laid his to match it.

“A bargain,” the bard said. “And the gods of the sky have witnessed it.”

On these winter days the sun climbed slowly and never reached zenith, as if the horizon held it on a short chain and dragged it back down before it could properly rise. Noon announced itself as a brightening behind the silver clouds; night crept over the town like silent water. Niffa would sit with her mother-in-law and practice spinning until her wrist ached from tossing the spindle. Emla would pick up her lengths of lumpy yarn, shake her head sadly, and give them to Cotzi to rework into something usable with her long, thin fingers. Still, Niffa would think, it was better work than drowning rats.

It was a drowsy time, huddled by the fire with the other women, spinning and gossiping to the sounds of the men weaving in the other room. The Wildfolk would come join them, though of course Niffa was the only one who could see them, crouching near her feet and watching the spindle drop and rise, drop and rise. They were fascinated with the weaving, as well; whenever Niffa walked by the door of the shop, she would see big grey gnomes sitting at the foot of the loom and staring at the shuttle as Lark or Cronin guided it through the warp.

On the rare occasions that Demet was home and working, they would crowd round him as he wrapped the shuttles with yarn. Every now and then, Niffa saw a gnome poke one of the skeins with a long warty finger, as if wondering how well it would tangle. When it caught her watching, it would vanish, but slowly, as if creeping away in guilt.

If the weather was clear or the snowfall light, after the midday meal Demet would leave the house and go to his militia post. Last spring a bard of the Gel da’Thae, the civilized members of the Horsekin race, had brought the town a warning that the savage Horsekin tribes to the far north were arming themselves and gathering for trouble. No more news had come their way since, but the town stayed on guard. Niffa’s brother Kyle served in the militia as well, and at times he’d stop by the weavers’ compound on his way back to Citadel and home.

In the evening, Niffa would wrap Demet’s supper in a bit of cloth and take it down to him on the city walls. They would have time for a few words and a kiss or two before the cold drove her back to the house to wait for him to come off watch. As she hurried back to the weavers’ compound, she would look up at Citadel Isle, swimming in the steam of the lake, and wonder how her family fared. The house seemed empty, Dera told her whenever they met at market, with both her and Jahdo gone.

As the new woman in the weavers’ household Niffa watched what she said and did her best to offend no one, but Lark’s wife, Farra, had a nasty temper, flaring like oil spilled into a fire at the least wrong word. Often as they worked, Niffa would let her mind wander, wondering about her family or about what her husband might be doing, there with the other men. At times stranger thoughts came to her, as well, of things she’d glimpsed in her dreams or in the fire, where pictures came and went that only she could see. Whenever Farra caught her “slacking,” as the older girl called it, she would turn on her with a nasty remark or two.

One particularly cold day Farra seemed in a worse mood than usual, snarling at Cotzi, sneering at Niffa, even risking a word back at Emla when she tried to restore peace at the fire.

“Well, it does gripe my very soul,” Farra said, “seeing Niffa just sitting there looking at naught, and us with all this wool to spin.”

“Hush, hush,” Emla said. “It’ll get itself all turned into thread sooner or later. It was needful for Niffa to learn from the beginning, like. It’s not easy work for her.”

“I suppose so.” Farra looked at Niffa with a simpering smile. “There be not much wool for the shearing off of rats, baint?”

“Nor from bitches, either.” Niffa snapped the words out before she could stop herself. “Or did things lie different in the kennel you were raised in?”

Cotzi laughed, then stuffed the side of her hand into her mouth as if to shove the sound back in. Farra flung her spindle onto the floor and leapt up, going for Niffa with an open-handed slap. In a swirl like dead leaves gnomes materialized and flung themselves at the older girl’s feet. With a yelp she fell spraddled onto the floor in front of Emla’s chair. The gnomes disappeared. With a long sigh Emla laid her spindle and thread down on the rush-covered floor.

“Get up, Farra,” she said. “And do you mind your tongue from now on. Niffa, you apologize to her.”

Niffa hesitated, then decided that peace in the house would be worth it.

“I be sorry, Farra. It were a wrong thing for me to call you a bitch.”

Farra got up, smoothing her dresses down, and refused to look her way. Emla sighed again.

“If you can’t be civil and take an apology—”

Farra sat down on the bench and grabbed her spindle from the floor. Emla looked at her, considering, then merely shrugged and returned to her own work.

By then it was growing dark. As Niffa struggled to twist her wool into thread, she felt her mood blackening to match the day. Farra would find a way to get back at her, and after all, they’d have to live here together forever. All at once she felt dread like the slap of a clammy hand across her face. With a gasp for breath she let her spindle fall into her lap.

“What be wrong?” Emla said. “You do look as pale as death.”

“Be I so? I know not, Mother. I did feel so faint, all of a sudden.”

Yet she lied. She knew what was wrong, knew what she could never tell the others, that some great evil had marked her Demet out with hate-filled eyes. She felt the danger to him like a shout, ringing in her ears. When she glanced around, she found all the women staring at her.

“May I go take Demet his bread and cheese?” Niffa said. “It do be a bit early, but the fresh air would do me good.”