Days of Air and Darkness

  Evandar sighed and looked away, and it seemed that he was, if not sad, then at least miming sadness. “Very well, then. I’ll see you again when I do.” With a flicker of light, like a glint of sun on moving water, Evandar disappeared. Rhodry stood for a moment, staring at the place where he’d been, then swore under his breath. He strode out of the chamber and hurried down the staircase to the comfort of things he understood, even if those things were war and death.

  Dallandra had spent the previous night working with the chirurgeons. All of them had driven themselves to work by lantern light until a few hours before dawn, when it became clear that they would only do more harm than help if they didn’t get some sleep. She dragged herself to her chamber and bed only to dream of wounds, broken bone, all white and shattered, cut flesh, bruised flesh, red blood, and blackening gore. After a few hours of this she woke, went down to work some more, then finally, near noon, crawled back to her bed and slept without dreaming. She woke again late in the day to the stink of old blood; she’d forgotten to wash.

  Feeling as if she’d gag, she got up, found an inadequate pitcher of water, bent her head over the basin, and poured the whole thing over, then dabbled the worst of the blood from her hands in the resulting mess. She staggered down to the women’s hall, only to find it empty, went down to the great hall but found no one but Jahdo. Freshly bathed and combed, the lad was wearing clean clothes, a shirt of obvious dwarven craftsmanship, a pair of trousers of the same, both the right length but far too wide for him. He had them belted with a strip of leather, tied in a knot for want of a buckle.

  “What’s this?” she said, laughing. “Have you been adopted by the Mountain Folk?”

  “I’ve not, my lady, but Rhodry, he did take me on as his page, and then he did send me to Garin, who did give me these things.”

  “Good, good.” She glanced round. “Where is everyone?”

  “At the victory feast, my lady. It do be late in the day. Rhodry sent me here to see if I could find you.”

  “Ah. Well, you have. Can you haul a couple of buckets of water up to my chamber for me?”

  “I will, my lady, and gladly.”

  After a cold wash and a change of clothes, she felt nearly alive again, but she lingered in her chamber. She was tempted to leave Cengarn, to step through a gate into Evandar’s country and leave the wounded and dying, the stinking streets and the ravaged countryside all far behind her. Yet if she left, what would happen to Carra and the baby? The raven mazrak still flew free, as far as anyone knew. Was she still a threat?

  “Evandar, Evandar,” she said aloud. “I miss you.”

  “And you’re never far from my thoughts, either, my love.”

  All at once he appeared, leaning comfortably against the wall near the window. He was dressed in his green tunic and leather trousers, and he had a red rose tucked behind one ear. When she ran to him, he threw his arms round her, but he felt barely substantial, as if she clung to a creature of glass, all smooth and cold. The rose gave off the richest perfume she’d ever smelled, so Sweet and strong that she knew it had never grown upon the earth.

  “It’s been a hellish time,” he remarked. “I’m glad I’ve seen this.”

  “What?” She pulled away. “How can you say that?”

  “It’s all been very interesting. I never quite understood before when you spoke of death.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, there’s been enough of that and more to come, truly.”

  “True.” Evandar held her close, stroking her hair. “It aches your heart so badly, my love. I wish you could find some comfort for it.”

  “You’re comfort enough, but I know you can’t stay here long.”

  “Won’t you come away with me, back to our country, just for a little while?”

  “How long will your little while be as Cengarn measures Time? Days? Years?”

  Evandar smiled with a rueful twist of his cherry-colored mouth.

  “Well, so it might be if we grew distracted and lingered. Very well. I’ve things I must attend to, but you’ll see me again soon. But here, I’ve no objection to Rhodry, you know, none at all.”

  With that he vanished, leaving the cool touch of his hands on hers like a scent. Dallandra raised her hands to her face to drink it in, then wept. She would just manage to force the tears under control when some image or memory would rise of the slaughter behind her—a wounded man dying even as she tried to staunch his wounds, the heap of corpses thrown outside the dun gates to wait for burial, the look on a man’s face when she told him his friend would lose a leg—and she would weep again. She rose from the chair, paced across the room, sobbing in frustration as much as grief, strode back and forth, until she heard someone walk up to the doorway and spun round, hoping for Evandar, finding Rhodry instead, clean and shaven and wearing a new linen shirt with Cengarn’s blazon upon it.

  “You’ve not come out to the feasting,” he said. “Here, what’s so wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” She found herself screaming at him. “What do you mean? So many men dead and dying, and you ask me what’s wrong? Ye gods! How death-besotted are you people?”

  In three quick strides, he crossed the room. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her close.

  “Hush, hush,” he whispered. “You’re so weary you’re half-mad, Dalla.”

  She looked up into his eyes and felt her rage leave her.

  “Maybe so.” She twisted away from him. “I do know I can’t bear the feasting. I just can’t.”

  “The worst is over. The bard’s done all his declamations, the gwerbrets have had their speeches, and the real drinking’s started.”

  At that she managed to smile, but mostly because he wanted her to. It would be very easy, she realized, to fall into his arms and bed at that moment, just for the comfort of it, especially when she remembered Evandar’s odd little remark. Irritably, she turned and walked a few steps away. The room was growing dim with twilight. On her little table stood a pair of candles, stuck to a piece of broken plate with drops of wax. She waved her hand and lit them in a flare light and a dance of long shadows.

  “Do you want me to go away?” Rhodry said.

  “Do you want to stay?”

  He shrugged and went to sit on the windowsill, perching there much as Jill had always done. She could see past him to the evening sky, darkening as the first stars appeared.

  “Dalla, will you answer me one question?”

  “About what?”

  “Dweomer, I suppose you’d call it.”

  “Well, if it’s not a forbidden thing to answer, I will.”

  “Fair enough. Let me think.”

  For a long time he stared at the floor, while the shadows grew in the room round the pool of candlelight.

  “Jill said she’d answer if I ever had the guts to ask,” he said at last. “When a man dies, is that the end of him?” He turned to look at her. “Or does he live again, in some other life?”

  She was too surprised to answer at first. He waited patiently.

  “Well, he won’t live again, exactly, but his soul will take on another body and another life.”

  “Huh. I’d come to think that it must be true, but I wanted to know, you see.”

  It occurred to her that it was probably grief driving him to ask.

  “It’s not like Jill herself will ever return,” Dallandra went on, “but another person with somewhat of Jill about her. Although they say, truly, that the greater your dweomer grows, the more you become your soul, not just some mask for it, and then, or so they say, you do come back again in some true sense.”

  “I’m not sure I understand all of that.”

  “I don’t suppose you need to.”

  “Probably not.” Rhodry smiled, just faintly. “But if you know that the men killed here today will live again, why are you so distraught?”

  “Didn’t they suffer as they died? And won’t their kin and clans suffer because they’ve lost them? Besides, it won’t be them come back, not in any
real sense. The men they were are gone. It’s like a seed, a grain of wheat, say. The seed bursts and dies, a stalk of wheat grows, and there’ll be another seed—but the first one’s gone forever.”

  “I see. In a way. Ah, well, the bards will sing of them, not by name, truly, but they’ll sing of this battle down the long years, and so we’ll all live a little while past our dying.”

  She could find nothing to say to that, and weeping again seemed too great a luxury to allow herself. He looked out the window, where the stars glittered in the vast drift of the Snowy Road, sat studying the sky for a long time, so long that she began to wonder what he might be thinking, and how much he’d understood. Finally, he got up, walking over to face her.

  “You never answered me,” he said. “Do you want me to go?”

  She had one brief struggle with her dignity.

  “I don’t,” she said. “I’d rather you stayed the night.”

  He smiled, then slipped his arms round her waist to draw her close and kiss her.

  After the feasting and the assigning of praise, after the bard songs and the salutes with the last of Cadmar’s mead, the army stumbled to its tents late. Jahdo had fallen asleep under one of the tables, but woke when the men began to leave. He crawled out and trotted through the crowd, looking for Rhodry, but he was tired enough to give up fast. When he carried his lantern back to their camp, he found Arzosah still awake, preening her claws with her enormous tongue.

  “Ah, there you are, little hatchling,” she remarked. “Where’s our master?”

  “I couldn’t find him. He did tell me that he were going up to the dun to look for Dallandra, but he never did come back.”

  “Ah.” The dragon made the thundering sound that did her for laughter. “Well, then, I wouldn’t worry about him.”

  “Be you sure he did not fall into some danger?” “Very sure. You’ll understand when you’re older.” “Here! You do sound just like my mam!” “Didn’t I tell the master that you’d be as a hatchling to me? Now go wash that sticky stuff off your face with stream water and then get to bed. We’ll be having a long morning of it.”

  “Oh, I doubt me that the army will be a-marching at dawn. They did have a fearsome lot to drink.”

  Arzosah laughed again.

  “No doubt, no doubt. But they’ll be mustering and suchlike, and the master will need you to pack up his gear. So off to bed you go.”

  When Rhodry woke in the morning, he found Dallandra up and dressed, kneeling on the floor and sorting out packets of medicinals. He lay in bed and merely watched her for a while, the delicate way her hands moved at her work, the confident way she glanced at this herb or that. All at once, she turned her head and smiled at him.

  “How long have you been awake?” she said.

  “Not very.” He stifled a yawn. “Dalla, do you love me?”

  “Not truly: Do you want me to?”

  “I don’t. I just don’t fancy breaking your heart.”

  “Good, but I wouldn’t worry about it.” She paused, sitting back on her heels. “Do you want me to come down to the muster and kiss you farewell and suchlike when the army rides out?”

  “I’d just as soon you didn’t.”

  She looked so relieved that he knew they understood each other very well.

  When he went downstairs, Rhodry stopped at the kitchen hut and bullied a serving lass into giving him a loaf of yesterday’s bread, then left Cengarn. Out on the battlefield, all the men and Horsekin had been buried, but ravens still wheeled and dipped over dead horses. He could see Arzosah moving among them and glutting herself while the ravens shrieked in rage for their interrupted meal.

  Jahdo sat waiting for him at their camp. Rhodry handed the boy a chunk of bread, then sat down opposite him to eat.

  “When will the army be marching?” Jahdo asked.

  “Some time today, most like. I’ve been thinking. It’d be best if you stayed here, to help Dalla, like. You can learn a little herbcraft and help her guard the princess.”

  “Oh, please, I don’t want to stay behind like a lass.”

  Rhodry grinned.

  “Nicely spoken, but this is going to be a forced march all the way. We’ll be driving them and harrying them, and there’s too many ways you could get killed. I can’t keep Jill’s promise if that happens, can I now?”

  Jahdo wept, two thin trails of tears, hastily stifled. He stared down at his chunk of bread for a long time.

  “Sometimes the best thing a man can do is naught,” Rhodry said. “I learned that lesson myself, riding this war. It’ll be best if you learn it now, early like, and don’t wait as long as I have.”

  “Well.” The boy looked up at last. “If you do order me, naught is all I can do about that. But please, be it truly needful for me to stay?”

  “It is. If I thought your Wyrd was war, I’d bring you along. But it’s not, lad. I’ve no idea what your Wyrd will be, but I know it’s not riding in a warband. Stay with Dalla.”

  “I will, then. But I do hope you come back, Rhodry.”

  “So do I.” He smiled in a weary sort of way. “So do I.”

  Jahdo wasn’t the only person in the dun ordered to stay behind against his will. Later that morning, when Rhodry joined the lords and warleaders, he found them sorting out the unwounded men, most for the pursuing army, but some for the fort guard. With the raven mazrak on the loose, Cengarn would need one. For all anyone knew, she’d flown off to muster more Horsekin for yet another attack. Calonderiel counted up his archers and delegated a hundred of them to remain behind and guard the walls.

  “And you, my prince,” he said to Daralanteriel, “are staying behind to captain them.”

  “Now here!” Dar snarled. “If you think I’m going to hide in a stone tent like a woman—”

  “You’re going to stay in the stone tents like a sensible man. Have you already forgotten that the point of this war is killing your wife?”

  Dar started to argue, thought better of it with his mouth still open.

  “Guard her well, and you’ll assure the victory,” Calonderiel went on. “Am I right, Rhodry?”

  “You are at that,” Rhodry chimed in. “Dar, don’t be a fool. They need you here, not haring round the countryside.”

  “Well and good, then,” the prince said. “Stay I will, but if any man says one word to my shame—”

  “I’ll knock some sense into him myself,” Calonderiel said. “And you know that’s no idle threat.”

  That afternoon, Rhodry and Arzosah flew out first and found the remnants of the Horsekin army crawling north, some fifteen miles away, then circled back to lead Cengarn’s men after. The grim pursuit went on for months, until as the old chronicle remarks, “the last of the savages still alive fled back into the high mountains, where, or so we may hope, they perished in the winter snows.”

  But during all those weeks of slaughter, Rhodry saw no sign of the enemy shape-changer, neither in bird nor woman form.

  FUTURE

  The Westlands, 1117

  CAUDA DRACONIS

  In most of the lands of our map, this figure mingles evil with good, and good with evil, so that it does mitigate both the joys and the sorrows of our lives. If it fall into the Land of Silver, that is to say, the land of kin and clan, then does it bring a fortunate end to such affairs, though the caster must always bear in mind that no matter of blood ties will remain unvexed for long.

  —The Omenbook of Gwarn,

  Loremaster

  A LATE MORNING SUN laid pale light over grass that grew brown under naked trees. When Rhodry went to the stream to drink, he found the water cold enough to sting. Swearing, he washed his face, tossing his head in a scatter of drops. Samaen had been and gone, he supposed, not that he could know for sure without a priest to tell the days. In his heart, though, he felt winter. Calonderiel strolled over to join him.

  “Autumn’s here, sure enough,” the warleader said. “I’m glad the gwerbret’s called an end to this chase.”
br />   “So am I. Will you be heading south today?”

  “I will. Gwerbret Cadmar’s heading back to Cengarn, of course, and his allies with him. What about you? Are you riding home? Your father’s going to be waiting at the winter camps.”

  “Will he? I’d like to see him again, truly. No doubt Arzosah would be glad of it, if I gave her leave to go.”

  “No doubt. I’m sick of hearing that wyrm grumble and whine, I tell you. You can have one of my horses for the ride home, of course.”

  Rhodry sighed, running damp hands through his hair to shove it clear of his face. He’d never told Calonderiel about Angmar and Haen Marn, nor did he want to now. Cal would only voice his own doubts. The island might never return; he might never see Angmar again; he might waste the rest of his life, haunting the Northlands, waiting in vain, when he could return to his people and live in honor and comfort, out in the peace of the grasslands.

  “Well, there’s Jahdo,” Rhodry said. “I took the lad into my charge, you know, and made him a promise.”

  “True. You could bring him west with you. We’ll take him home in the spring.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Ye gods, you’re bound and determined to stay in Cengarn, aren’t you?” All at once Calonderiel grinned. “Wait a moment! Am I right in thinking Dallandra has somewhat to do with this?”

  “You’re not.”

  “Hah! When Dar brings his lady back to us, ride with him, will you? Bring Dalla home, too.”

  Rhodry looked away. Across the stream lay a long meadow, and beyond it the hills rose, brown and sere. A blue mist hung in the chilly air, while far away he could see the high mountains rise, their peaks gleaming white.

  “I don’t know, Cal, I just don’t know. Who knows what a man’s Wyrd will bring him? Spring’s a long way away yet.”

  “So it is. Well, then, I’ll hope I see you again and leave it at that.”

  Rhodry had one more farewell to make. He and Garin sat together to share a meager breakfast of stale flatbread and moldy cheese. Neither spoke until they were done eating.