The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (54 page)

Otho crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. Mic was stirring porridge in the big iron kettle that hung from a hook in the hearth. He used both hands to hold the long wooden spoon and scraped round the sides and bottom, turning the hot mush into the cool.

“Not done yet?” Otho snapped.

“Soon. You might call in the boatmen.”

Otho stomped out, leaving the door open to a warm spring morning. No matter what his uncle thought of his plans, soon, or so Mic was thinking, he’d be able to leave the island and explore the countryside around the lake. Maybe, just maybe, they’d find some clues as to where the dweomer had brought them. It was Mic’s ruling hope that they were close enough to Dwarveholt that he could walk home, no matter how long the walk might be. He glanced up and saw Lady Angmar’s maidservant.

“There you are,” old Lonna said. “My lady wants you to take Avain her breakfast.”

“As soon as I can turn this over to one of the boatmen I will. How does Angmar fare?”

“Well, and both her daughters with her.”

“Daughters?” Mic felt his face crease in a grin. “How splendid! And twins, is it? Let’s hope that’s a good omen.”

“Huh! If they live the summer, mayhap it will be.”

“True enough.” Mic wiped the smile away. “Well, I’ll pray that they’re healthy.”

With a long sigh Lonna walked over to a wooden chest and began bringing out bowls to feed the men. As soon as the boat crew came stomping in, she sent Lon, her son and the head boatmen, to take over the stirring. Mic ladled out a big serving for Avain.

“Is there any salt left?” Mic said.

“A sprinkling,” Lon said. “Here’s hoping you can barter for some. I wouldn’t mind having some butter again, either.”

“There’s not a lot of grain, either,” Lonna put in. “We’d best find some way to trade, or we’ll starve.”

“You know,” Mic said, “I have to admit that sometimes I agree with Uncle Otho’s opinion of this island. If its dweomer is so blasted mighty, why can’t it feed us as well, like you hear about in the old tales? With a magic cauldron or suchlike.”

Lonna drew herself up to full height and glared at him.

“Don’t you go questioning your betters, young Mic,” she said. “Now get that porridge up to little Avain.”

With a bowl of porridge and a pitcher of fresh water on a tray, Mic left the manse and walked round to the square tower. The sun lay warm on his back; the wind that sighed eternally across Haen Marn felt balmy as well. The stand of trees behind the manse were putting out pale green buds along branch and twig. Yet when he went inside the tower, it smelled of damp stone and ancient cold.

With a careful eye on his tray, Mic hurried up the spiralling iron staircase past a landing piled with empty sacks and firewood, then paused halfway up the next turn.

“Avain!” he called out. “I’ve come with your breakfast.”

From above he heard her giggle in answer. He climbed on and came up into a proper room, sunny and bright from big windows, though the walls were more of the dark stone. By the largest window stood a table and a half-round chair. Avain herself was perched dangerously on the windowsill and gazing out. She was plump in a soft and puffy way, with a big round face nodding over a round body, and a tangled mass of yellow hair curling round her face and spilling down her back. No one, not even her mother, could coax her into allowing her hair to be braided, just as no one could coax her into living in the manse instead of her tower, not even in the worst of winter, when this room had felt as cold as the snows outside.

“You’d best get out of the window now,” Mic said. “And come eat your porridge.”

“Avain will fly.” She spread her arms like wings and laughed. “Avain will fly away.”

“Oh? And where will you get porridge, then?” Mic set the tray down on the table. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it all up myself.”

Avain giggled and climbed down to the safety of the floor. She sat on her chair and picked up her wooden spoon.

“Be careful now,” Mic said. “The porridge is still very hot in the middle.”

“Avain likes hot.”

And that was certainly true, he thought. He’d seen her eat things hot enough to burn a man’s mouth, much less a lass’s. She gulped down a few spoonsful, then looked up at him. Her eyes were the strangest thing about her, dark green, slit by vertical yellow pupils like those of a cat, and nearly lidless. She lacked eyebrows, too, though she had a sharp brow ridge to mark where they should have been.

“Is the porridge good?” Mic said.

“It is.” She returned to gobbling.

“I’ve got news for you. Do you remember that your mother was going to have a new baby?”

Avain nodded and held her free hand out in front of her stomach, no doubt to indicate her mother’s size.

“Well, last night she had two babies.” Mic held up two fingers. “You have two new sisters.”

Avain laid her spoon down, then held up two fingers in imitation of his gesture.

“Babies,” she said. “Avain wants to see the babies.”

“I’m afraid they’re too little to come visit you yet.”

She stared uncomprehendingly. Mic held up his hands to indicate a tiny size.

“The babies are too small,” he said. “They are very small. They have to stay in bed.”

She smiled and nodded, started to pick up her spoon, then hesitated, her head tilted to one side.

“Avain wants to see the babies.”

“Well, can you see them in your silver basin?” Mic pointed to the big silver bowl that also sat on the table. “Can you look into the water and see them?”

Avain frowned, considering something. Over the winter past Mic had seen her scry far-off things often enough that he no longer doubted that she was as dweomer as the island itself.

“Avain wants to really see them. Avain go downstairs.”

“All the way to the manse? Will you go all the way to the manse? That’s where they are.”

“Avain go to the manse.” She stood up. “Now.”

Getting her down the stairs and out took a fair while. She would descend a few steps’ worth, then lose her nerve, but every time that Mic suggested she go back to her room, she would shake her head and take a few more stairs. Finally they reached the tower door, where she balked one more time.

“There’s the manse,” Mic said, pointing. “The babies are in bed with your mother. Do you want to see them, or do you want to go back?”

Avain took a deep breath and stepped out into the sunlight. She yelped and put both hands over her eyes, separating her fingers just enough to peer out through them.

“Nasty,” she remarked, perhaps of the glare. “Avain wants to see the babies.”

Mic led her inside through a back door to the manse, so they could avoid the men in the great hall. Once in the relative shade she sighed and lowered her hands. The stairs up she took willingly, giggling a little as they climbed. At the door Mic knocked; in a moment it opened a crack to reveal an irritable Lonna.

“And what do you want?” she hissed. “I won’t have anyone bothering my lady—oh! Avain!”

“Avain wants to see the babies,” the lass said. “Two babies.”

“Well, there are two, truly.” Lonna stepped back and opened the door. “If you want to see them badly enough to come down, then see them you shall.”

Avain marched into the room, and Mic followed to keep an eye on her. Back home in Lin Serr he never would have been allowed into the presence of a woman who had just given birth—men were forbidden to impinge upon such sacred and dangerous matters—but Lonna, so long away from Dwarven society, let him in. He did stay well back by the door, though, lest he pollute Angmar and the infants somehow.

Avain ran right over to her mother’s bedside. Angmar woke, smiled and sat up, turning her face so Avain could kiss her cheek.

“Babies!” the lass squealed. “Two babies!”

“Just so,” Angmar said, laughing. “My darling Avain! How sweet of you! Here are your new sisters, right enough.”

With Lonna’s help, Avain picked up the bigger infant. Mic was surprised at her gentleness; she held the baby carefully and merely gazed into its eyes. Finally with a sigh she handed it back to the maidservant.

“Pretty!” Avain announced. “So pretty!”

“She is, isn’t she?” Angmar said. “Would you like to hold the other one?”

Avain smiled and nodded, then once again took the infant with surprising tenderness. When she bent her head to look into its eyes, she squealed in delight.

“Granmama!” Avain said. “Avain is here, Granmama!”

With a glance at Angmar, Lonna leaned forward to take the baby. Avain planted a kiss on the baby’s cheek, then surrendered her. Lonna handed her back to her mother.

“Avain?” Angmar whispered. “Do you mean Grandmother Marnmara?”

“It is. Granmama.” Avain looked up and laughed, then spun away from the bed, spun around and around, suddenly graceful as she grabbed her dress at the seams and held it out, as if she were tugging at wings. “Mama wants to go home, Granmama.”

In the crook of Angmar’s arm the baby had fallen back asleep. Lonna came stumping over with a short bit of green thread.

“Let’s just tie this around Mara’s little ankle,” Lonna said. “So we can tell her and Berwinna apart.” She glanced Mic’s way. “I’ll explain later.”

“Well and good, then. If I don’t die of curiosity first.”

Avain laughed, clapped her hands, and danced over to the window.

“Home,” she said. “We all go home soon.”

Mic felt foolish for allowing himself to hope, but hope he did, that perhaps she’d been given an omen that soon Haen Marn would return to Dwarveholt. But what did “soon” mean to her, anyway, and what, truly, would she see, staring into the future with her strange dragon’s eyes?

END OF BOOK ONE OF
 
THE DRAGON MAGE

A
ppendices

A NOTE ON DEVERRY YEARS

Deverry dating begins at the founding of the Holy City, approximately year 76 C.E. The reader should remember that the old Celtic New Year falls on the day we call November 1, so that winter is the first season of a new year.

A NOTE ON THE PRONUNCIATION
OF DEVERRY WORDS

The language spoken in Deverry is a member of the P-Celtic family. Although closely related to Welsh, Cornish, and Breton, it is by no means identical to any of these actual languages and should never be taken as such.

Vowels
are divided by Deverry scribes into two classes: noble and common. Nobles have two pronunciations; commons, one.

A as in
father
when long; a shorter version of the same sound, as in
far
, when short.

O as in
bone
when long; as in
pot
when short.

W as the
oo
in
spook
when long; as in
hoof
when short.

Y as the
i
in
machine
when long; as the
e
in
butter
when short.

E as in
pen
.

I as in
pin
.

U as in
pun
.

Vowels are generally long in stressed syllables; short in unstressed. Y is the primary exception to this rule. When it appears as the last letter of a word, it is always long whether that syllable is stressed or not.

Diphthongs
generally have one consistent pronunciation.