The Silver Mage (67 page)

“These are fascinating.” Dallandra traced a group of marks with one fingertip. “They must be the sigils of Aethyr that you told me about.”

“There’s another group next to the other hearth,” Laz said. “When we stand here we face north, most of the time, at least, though you never know with this island.”

“Does it move often?”

“It twitches.” Laz paused for a grin. “Never very far, but it does stir in its sleep like a dreaming dog. Anyway, if we were looking at that other group of identical sigils, we’d face south. I think the two groups define an axis.”

“You’re doubtless right. Branna and I have a theory about these carvings, that somehow or other they contain the information we need to control the construct. I think we may be able to convince the island to move itself to the Westlands.”

“Truly?” Laz whistled under his breath in amazement. “That’s very impressive.”

“My thanks, but it’s only a guess.”

“When the island came here from Alban, these groups of sigils glowed lavender.” Laz frowned, searching his memory. “And another group, these here—” he laid his fingertip on a set of asymmetric loops and spirals, “—glowed turquoise, but with curiously unpleasant orange-red flecks in them.”

“Ye gods! I’ve never seen marks like that before.”

“That’s a pity. I was hoping you had and could explain them.”

Dallandra shook her head and glared at three little circles, each sprouting four pairs of thin wavy lines, as if they’d personally insulted her.

“I have no idea if we can make the dweomer work,” she said at last. “But be that as it may, I told Rori to wait till I send word before he and Arzosah fly all this way to Haen Marn.”

“Ah.”
Good,
Laz thought,
that gives me time to figure out how I can avoid him.
“I take it that the other dweomermasters in your alar won’t be coming here until you know.”

“Just so. Why?”

“I was wondering if Sidro would come with them.”

“She won’t.” Dallandra hesitated for an ominous moment.

“I suppose she doesn’t want to see me.”

Dallandra said nothing.

“Here!” Laz felt a stab of worry. “She’s not ill, is she?”

“Not truly. Ah, well, you might as well know. She’s with child.”

“Pir’s child?” The words seem to stick in his mouth like phlegm. He had to force them out.

“It is.” She hesitated again then patted him on the arm. “I’m sorry.”

Laz turned on his heel and strode out of the great hall.
She’ll never come back to me now,
he was thinking,
never!
The word tolled in his mind like a bell. He made his way through the underbrush down to the lakeshore, where the little bench stood under the willow tree, only to see Kov and Mara sitting there, holding hands and smiling at each other. With a snarl, Laz trotted back to the manse.

He banged through the door into the great hall. Dallandra had left. Cats scattered at his approach. He ran to the stairway and rushed up with the word “never” still ringing in his mind. Sisi was gone, she’d left him once and for all, she was carrying another man’s child. He hurried into his chamber and slammed the door behind him, then leaned against it while he panted for breath.

“I can’t stay here,” he whispered. “They’ll have to read the wretched book without me. Cursed if I’ll help them!” He paused on a wave of self-pity. “Not that they even asked me to.”

Faharn was dead, Sidro gone forever, Dallandra profoundly uninterested—what was left to him? The charity of some Deverry lord? Life among the Westfolk? A line of cold sweat ran down his back. He was maimed, lost, alone—nothing left to him but pleading for shelter somewhere from someone who might or might not grant it. Angmar and Mara would have taken him in, but once the dragon had turned back into Rhodry and claimed his place as lord of the island, what then?

Laz found his sack, packed up his belongings, then stripped off his clothes and crammed them in, too. By then he hovered on the edge of weeping. As he laid the sack onto the windowsill, it occurred to him that he’d felt happy here in Haen Marn. A few tears came. He wiped them off on his arm and swallowed heavily. It took all his will for him to steady his mind enough to transform into the raven. In bird form he hopped onto the sack, sank his claws in deep, and flew, dropping out of the window and heading for the distant shore.

Ahead loomed the astral vortex that surrounded and interpen etrated Haen Marn. Laz did think—briefly—of returning to his chamber and man form, then asking to be ferried across, but his old recklessness caught him up.
Maybe it’s better if I just die!
He made one turn over the peaceful manse below to say farewell to the apple trees and the tower, then banked a wing and turned straight for the loch and its astral matrix.

With a cackle of raven laughter, he plunged straight into the swirling, snapping lines of light. Blue and silver, gold and brilliant white—they wrapped him round and snared him like a fowler’s net.

B
ranna happened to be out walking on the island when she saw Laz in raven form come swooping out of the upper window of the manse. For a moment, when he made his turn around the island, she lost sight of him. He reappeared from behind the tower and headed straight for the open water of the loch. When she realized what he was going to do, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Laz, don’t! Dalla, Dalla! Laz, stop!”

Branna took off running, following the raven as he flew toward the water. She’d found him disgusting at first sight, but at the moment she saw only a troubled soul rushing to some unknown disaster.

“Stop!” she yelled as loud as she could. “Laz!”

Too late. The raven slammed into an invisible wall high in the air. For a moment he hung there, his wings splayed, his head thrown back. With a flutter he fell, spiraling down like a bird arrow-pierced, to land sprawled on the sandy shore.

Branna rushed over and flung herself to a kneel beside him. He still lived, because he’d fallen across his sack of clothing, which had broken some of the fall. The raven was gasping for breath and rolling its yellow eyes, its beak open and helpless.

“Hold still,” Branna said. “Help’s coming.”

She heard voices behind her, Dallandra and Mara both, and the sound of running footsteps. The raven gasped out a word.

“I can’t understand,” Branna said. “Just lie still.”

On impulse she reached out and stroked the ruffled feathers on his head, smoothing them back into place. Laz shut his eyes, and slowly his breathing quieted. Mara dropped to her knees beside Laz and gently lifted a wing. With her help, he folded it close to his body.

“What happened?” Dalla knelt down beside Branna.

“He tried to fly through the vortex,” Branna said. “I don’t know why.”

The raven spoke, and this time she understood him: crazed.

“You were that!” Dallandra said. “Is somewhat broken? Your wings? Arms, I mean?”

The raven turned his head and seemed to be thinking.

“Be the strength to change back be with you, Laz?” Mara said. “We then could see if somewhat be wrong after you did change back.”

The raven nodded. With Branna’s help, he got to his feet, shaking his wings with a great shudder and flapping to balance himself on one leg.

“That ankle’s bad, isn’t it?” Dallandra got to her feet then pointed to the dangling leg. “Or more than just the ankle.”

The raven nodded again.

“We’ll turn away,” Dalla went on, “to let you concentrate.”

Branna followed her lead and looked out over the water. From behind them she heard a shriek, a long cackle and croak of pure despair. Branna spun around and saw that Laz had fallen again—still in raven form, sprawled like a black cloak over the pale sand.

“Can’t! Can’t change.”

Dallandra’s eyes suddenly went unfocused; Branna could assume that she was studying him with the Sight.

“Just rest now,” Dallandra said. “Later you’ll have more energy, and you can try again. You’re exhausted, Laz. Here, Mara—will you go back to the manse and fetch the boatmen? We’ll need them to carry him back.”

With a nod Mara turned and ran. Dallandra knelt down next to the raven and began to stroke his injured leg with gentle fingers, assessing the damage. As she watched, Branna realized that something far worse than a broken bone was wrong with Laz, just from the limp way he sprawled. He tried to lift his head, then let his eyes roll back and slumped again. Dallandra, however, went on speaking in a quiet soothing voice to her patient, a sure sign that she, too, saw some more serious injury.

Enj, Kov, Lon, and the one real boatman carried the raven up to his chamber, where Mara waited with splints and other supplies for Laz’s broken leg. Branna squatted down in a corner out of the way and watched as Dallandra set and bound the leg with Mara’s help. Now and then Laz made a croaking sound and tossed his head from side to side, but he kept himself remarkably still.

“That should do it,” Dallandra said. “Mara, I’ll leave soothing the patient to you. He’s been in a lot of pain, and he’s absolutely got to rest.”

“Well and good, then,” Mara said. “I’ll be trying to calm him.”

Dallandra gestured to Branna to follow and led her out to the corridor. They walked to the head of the stairs and paused there to speak in whispers.

“Shouldn’t you have waited to set that break until he’s back in man form?” Branna said.

“He may never return to it,” Dallandra said. “What’s happened is truly horrible. Getting caught in the astral vortex—it stripped away his etheric double, the human part of him, that is. It should have killed him. Fortunately, his body of light is strong enough to replace the double and keep him alive. Unfortunately, it exists in the shape of a raven. As far as I can tell, he’ll be trapped in that form until he dies.”

Unthinkingly, Branna laid her hand over her mouth, fearing she’d vomit.

“He always did fly too much,” Dalla continued. “Over the years, his body of light must have taken over some of the functions of the etheric double, or perhaps warped it, somehow. I don’t understand exactly what happened.”

“But the end result be obvious enough.” Mara spoke from behind them. “He does ken the truth, Dalla, and he does agree with you.”

They turned to include her in a circle.

“He does talk of killing himself,” Mara went on. “But I doubt me if he will. The talk, his voice—they convinced me not of true despair.”

“You can understand him, then?” Branna said.

“Mostly. He be my teacher, and there be a bond between us.” She tried, briefly, to smile. “I did tell him that it were his wyrd to live, for much remains for me to learn.”

“Excellent!” Dallandra said. “That’s exactly what he’ll need, some reason or purpose for his life, since he’ll be the raven until he dies.”

“But how much longer will that be?” Mara said. “Birds, they do live but a short time.”

“I have no idea, but I’d wager he’ll live out a long span of years if he stays here. The island will give him strength. That’s its purpose, isn’t it? To act as a talisman of healing.”

“I kenned that not. Truly, there be so much dweomer yet to learn.”

“Well, Laz can teach you some of it, and I can help as well. For now, though, your task is to help Laz heal.”

“Well and good, then. He be welcome as long as he wishes to stay.”

“And our task, Dalla?” Branna said.

“Is to understand the carvings on the walls. Now that I’ve seen them, I’ve no doubt that they’ll teach us everything we need to know about the island, if we can only read them.”

“Well and good, then. Will it take long?”

Branna was all wide eyes and enthusiasm. Dallandra suppressed a laugh. “I have no idea,” she said. “I hope not.”

“I was just thinking of poor Rori, waiting for our aid.”

“The best time for unwinding the dweomer will be at the dark of the moon, but Rori’s been a dragon for nearly fifty years. I don’t suppose waiting another month will strike him as unreasonable, if we should have to.”

“Well, true spoken.” Yet Branna looked saddened by the thought of such a wait.

When Dallandra considered the moon that night, she saw that it had reached its third quarter.

They spent several days studying the vast and elaborate carvings to fix them in their minds. Dallandra drilled Branna mercilessly until they both knew the position of every cluster of design, every sigil that they recognized, every digraph, and every unknown mark. Dallandra had been hoping that the digraphs would identify the various portions of the designs, but they seemed to be mere abbreviations, perhaps well known to the founders of Haen Marn, a mystery to her.

In between their sessions of study, Dallandra would look in on Laz. His delicate leg, turned hollow as bird bones are, would heal very slowly, she realized.