The Spirit Stone

  In the morning, the portion of the army that would be pulling back marched off north, heading for the ford. The last of the rearguard had just disappeared from sight when the dragons returned. The commanders rushed out to greet them and hear their reports. With the wounded gone, Dallandra had nothing to do but wonder what they’d discovered. Now and then she allowed herself a brief hope that no Horsekin reinforcements would appear, but she wasn’t in the least surprised when those hopes proved foolish.

  ‘They’re on their way, all right,’ Calonderiel told her. ‘But the army’s not all that large, and it’s short on cavalry. Those heavy horses of theirs are hard to come by. We’ve killed a good many of them—too many. It’s a pity, really, but that’s war.’

  ‘Are the dragons still here? I need to look at Rori’s wound again.’

  ‘Please do. It stinks as bad as burning wolf shit.’

  Dallandra’s assistants had all kept an eye out for leeches at every stream or pond they’d come across. Ranadario, in fact, had been hunting that very morning. When Dalla went to look for her, she found Ranadario out among the scrub, where a slow rivulet ran down towards the Galan Targ.

  ‘Dalla, Dalla, look!’ Ranadario hurried over, lugging a big pottery jar. ‘I found some!’

  At the bottom of the water in the jar lay what appeared to be a heap of grey slime. When Ranadario shook the jar, the heap uncoiled itself into several handfuls of fresh-water leeches, all of them hungry, judging by how pale their tubular bodies were.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Dallandra said. ‘They’re beautiful specimens. Now I need to fetch our dragon.’

  Rori was quite willing to come and be treated. He followed her to the beaten-down area of grass where Ranadario was waiting with the jar of leeches, jars of herb water and wash water, and the various implements and salves they’d need.

  ‘Lie down on your side,’ Dallandra said. ‘I don’t want the leeches falling off into the grass.’

  ‘Can they live out of the water?’ Rori said.

  ‘Not for long. We’ll keep them moist while they’re feeding. Well, if they will feed.’

  Rori stretched out both pairs of legs and flopped over onto his side, making the ground tremble under her feet. While Ranadario held the jar, Dallandra fished out a leech with wooden tongs and laid it on top of a stripe of blackened flesh at the very edge of the wound. The creature squirmed, then sank its larger mouth into the black flesh and attached itself with the smaller. In only a few moments its colour turned a faint pink. Dallandra sighed in relief. Apparently the leeches liked the taste of dragon well enough.

  ‘Can you feel that?’ Dallandra said.

  ‘No,’ Rori said.

  ‘It’s definitely morbid, then. Let’s see how much this batch of leeches will eat.’

  ‘There’s lots more in the stream,’ Ranadario said. ‘When I was collecting these, a really big one bit me, in fact, but I had to salt it and kill it to get it off.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’ Dallandra dipped a rag in the jug of clean water and squeezed the moisture over the feeding leech. ‘You keep doing this, and when this one looks ready to drop off, put it back in the other jar.’ She handed her the tongs. ‘Then put a fresh one onto the next bit of black stuff.’

  Dallandra walked around to Rori’s head so they could talk more comfortably. He opened his strangely human eyes and considered her.

  ‘Owaen died of wound rot,’ he announced. ‘Is that what’s wrong with me?’

  ‘No, I’m glad to say. Who’s Owaen? One of the men you fought with?’

  ‘Yes, back in the Time of Troubles, that was. I was a bard then, a silver dagger’s bard, but I could swing a sword when I had to. Owaen got a deep wound that went black, just like this one. I was wounded, too, but for some reason I survived. I remember lying there in a fever and hearing that Owaen still lived, but he died later that same day. I suppose Nevyn saved my miserable life, such as it was.’

  ‘What? Rori, have you started remembering past lives?’

  ‘A good many of them. Dragons do, you see, know their pasts, though they live so long that they only remember one or two old lives. They know a great many strange things, actually.’ He was staring straight out in front of him. ‘Some of them have come to me on their own. Others I suppose I’ll learn some day.’

  ‘Do you want to go on living as a dragon?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘As things stand, no, but we may be able to discover how to give you your proper form again.’ Suddenly she remembered Evandar’s message in the black crystal and the mysterious book. ‘I think Evandar may have left us the key for unlocking his working, if we can find it.’

  ‘Us? We?’

  ‘Jill and I. Blast it, I mean Branna! Jill told me when she was still alive that she saw an omen about some evil that would befall you, you see, and she swore that she’d help you lift it. Since she died before she could, the vow’s come to Branna.’

  ‘Where is this key?’

  ‘It might be in a book that seems to be on Haen Marn.’

  ‘Then it’s lost forever.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. The island may well return. Have you ever flown back to look for Enj?’

  ‘Many a time. He still keeps his vigil in the wilderness in the summers and goes back to Lin Serr in the winters. He has more faith than I.’ Rori abruptly raised his head and looked back to glare at Ranadario. ‘Careful there, girl! I felt that.’

  ‘My apologies!’ Ranadario sounded terrified. ‘But we’ve got to make sure the wound’s stripped clean.’

  ‘You may not eat my assistant,’ Dallandra said. ‘So be a good dragon and hold still.’

  Rori growled, but he laid his head down again. His tail slapped the ground once, then quieted.

  ‘That’s better,’ Dallandra said. ‘Did you see any books when you were on Haen Marn?’

  ‘I didn’t, no, but that means nothing. Haen Marn showed me only what it wanted me to see.’ He paused for a long sigh. ‘Are you happy with Cal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I knew he loved you. That’s one reason I wanted to leave you and go back to Haen Marn. The other reason was Angmar, of course. Ye gods, I hope she never sees me this way.’

  ‘Why not? From everything you told me about her, she’s the one woman in all the worlds who’ll understand.’

  Rori stared at her for a moment, then laughed, a deep rumble that brought a howl of protest from Ranadario.

  ‘You’re shaking off the leeches,’ Dallandra said. ‘You need to lie still.’

  Rori rolled his eyes in disgust, but he did stop laughing. ‘How long is this going to take?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Dallandra said. ‘I’ve never treated a dragon before. Some days, I should think. If we can clear off all the infected bits, then the wound will have a chance to heal normally. I’ll flush it out regularly with herb water, but I won’t be able to stitch it. Your skin’s too thick.’

  ‘We don’t have days. The Horsekin will reach the ruins long before that.’

  ‘Then I’ll do what I can now and finish it later. But the most important part of the cure is very simple. Stop licking it.’

  ‘That’s what Arzosah keeps telling me.’

  ‘She’s right. Stop! No licking, no clawing at it, or scratching, or biting it. If it gets dirt in it, come to me, and I’ll wash it out properly.’

  He growled under his breath and seemed to be studying the horizon.

  ‘I can try numbing it down so it won’t hurt as much.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt, precisely. It burns and itches. But that’s not the worst of it. It’s the way it reminds me.’

  ‘Of the transformation, you mean?’

  ‘That, too. Are you certain that Raena didn’t put an evil spell on that dagger?’

  ‘Quite certain. She lacked the power and the knowledge both. The only spell on the dagger was the one that the silver dagger’s smith put on it when he was forging it for Yraen.’ She hesitated, rem
embering. ‘You cried out that the wound burned when you got it.’

  ‘It did.’ He slipped into Deverrian, apparently without realizing it. ‘I’d been wounded before, and badly at that, but none of them burned. They gave me pain bad enough to make me stagger and heave, truly, but not pain that felt like a burning brand thrust into my side. The wound’s black as charcoal, too.’

  ‘It is that. I thought of gangrene, when first I saw it, but it’s not spread. If it were the true wound rot, you’d be dead.’

  ‘More’s the pity, then.’

  ‘Rori, if you truly want to die, for the sake of all the gods, find some decent way to kill yourself.’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah, it was only a jest, my lady. I do but jest to amuse both my ladies, you and my Lady Death. I’ll tell you what the trouble is. How, pray tell, should I die in a decent way, were I so minded? Who’s going to kill me? Who can?’ He slapped his tail hard on the ground. ‘Every fighting man who’s ever lived has wished at one time or another that he was invulnerable. Well, I’ve got my wish, and ye gods, it aches my heart! Should I dive into the sea or a fire mountain and die without a shred of glory or honour? That’s not a decent death. And so I keep on living, fighting for the high king as I always did, out here on the border.’ He sighed in a soft roar of sound. ‘It suits me, I suppose. It amuses me, at least.’

  Dallandra found herself utterly speechless. He raised his head and looked at her.

  ‘Is there really a chance you can unwind Evandar’s dweomer?’ he said.

  ‘There is, but it’s a small one.’

  ‘That will do.’ He began speaking Elvish again. ‘Isn’t that girl done yet with her slimes and worms?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Ranadario said. ‘The leeches are all nice and fat and purple.’

  ‘Good,’ Dallandra said. ‘Rori, we’ve brought some herbal water. Let me just clean up after the leeches, and then you can go for today.’

  After he’d flown off, Dallandra remembered his saying ‘that will do’. Do for what? she thought. Most likely, for a reason to keep living.

  Arzosah returned late that day to give another report to the princes and the gwerbret. When she’d finished, Dallandra went out to show her the dragonbone whistle that once had lain on Alshandra’s altar. When she held it up, Arzosah hissed long and hard.

  ‘At last!’ the dragon said.

  ‘I take it you recognize it,’ Dallandra said.

  ‘Of course I do. It’s made of my other mate’s bones. I want to drop it into the melt of my fire mountain, so that at least a small part of him will have come home. Will you keep it for me until the war’s over?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  ‘My thanks. Speaking of mates, I saw Rori. The wound looks a thousand times better. You have my thanks for that, too.’

  ‘You’re most welcome. I think I can cure it completely.’

  ‘May all the gods of fire and steam be praised! If only he’d left that wretched Raena alone, but oh no, he had to have his revenge.’ The dragon heaved a massive sigh. ‘We both seem to have a penchant for unsuitable males, you with that disgusting Evandar first and now with the arrogant banadar person.’

  ‘Here! Don’t keep insulting—’

  ‘It’s obvious why, of course.’ The dragon went on as if she’d not heard. ‘We both like our privacy, and our time alone, and a suitable male would be underwing—well, under-foot in your case—all day long.’

  Dallandra opened her mouth to argue but paused, struck by a sudden thought. ‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘There are advantages to wandering men.’

  ‘I’m always right.’ Arzosah yawned with a flash of fang. ‘I flew over the other part of the army, by the by, on my way here. They’ve reached the ford safely. I did notice that some servants were digging a grave, but it looked big enough for just one man.’

  ‘I was afraid that some of the wounded weren’t going to live much longer. Well, I’ll hope that whoever it was is the last to die.’

  Tieryn Cadryc’s contingent had made camp early that afternoon to bury Tieryn Gwivyr and let the other wounded rest. After servants slung Gwivyr into the grave, Gerran jumped in to lay Gwivyr’s sword on his chest and clasp his hands on its hilt. Salamander helped him climb out again, and together they watched the servants shovel dirt over the body.

  ‘My heart aches for little Branna,’ Gerran said. ‘He was her father, after all.’

  ‘So he was,’ Salamander said. ‘Well, he’s not the only good man who’s died in this war.’

  ‘He won’t be the last, either, if there are more Horsekin on the way to Zakh Gral.’ With a shrug, Gerran turned away. ‘Let’s go draw our rations.’

  Over by the horse herd, servants were handing out packets of food from an open wagon. As Gerran and Salamander walked up, Salamander noticed a skinny little brown-haired lass waiting patiently while men were served ahead of her.

  ‘That’s Tarro’s sister.’ Salamander pointed her out to Gerran. ‘She was taken from Neb’s old village. I suppose she’s bringing food to her brother. I heard he was badly wounded.’

  At Gerran’s approach the other men stepped back to let him go to the head of the line, but Gerran gestured to the lass.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘And how fares your brother?’

  ‘Penna, my lord.’ She made a passable curtsey. ‘He’s healing as well as he ever will. He lost his left arm. I’m taking care of him, though, and so he’ll get better.’

  ‘Give him my sympathies.’ Gerran turned to the servant. ‘Give this lass what she needs right now, enough for both her and her brother. She’s not safe, waiting around here with the men. From now on, give out her share as soon as she gets here.’

  The servant looked shocked, but he answered politely enough. ‘I will, Lord Gerran. As you wish, of course.’

  Penna gave him a brilliant smile and curtsied again. Once she had the rations, she trotted off, disappearing among the tents.

  ‘Tarro was one of Ridvar’s riders,’ Salamander remarked. ‘The gods only know what will happen to them now.’

  ‘They’ll have a place in my dun if they want it.’ Gerran gave him a smile twisted with irony. ‘When, of course, I get a dun. I’ll send Clae to tell them.’

  Once they received their rations, much the worse for wear from their long journey, Salamander found he had little appetite. When he stowed his share of crumbling flatbread and rancid salted meat in his saddlebags, he noticed the bundle containing the black pyramid. Studying the gem would provide a splendid distraction from his grief. He carried the bundle a little ways away from camp, out in the grass to a comfortable spot not far from the forest verge, but he made sure that he stayed close enough to yell for help should there be any trouble. While he’d not received any dweomer omens, ordinary thoughts of mounted Horsekin attacks had occurred to him.

  He unwrapped the banner made from his old shirt and spread it out on the ground, then sat down cross-legged and placed the crystal upon it. Once again he saw Evandar, standing upon the pier at Haen Marn, displaying the book, then fading away. Yawning, he leaned forward in hopes of seeing a different vision, but the sun was hot upon his back, and the events he’d just lived through had left him exhausted. He was half-asleep by the time he saw something move inside the pyramid.

  He picked up the showstone, looked into it through the clipped apex, and saw brown eyes staring back. Dimly he could see the rest of the mazrak’s face, as sharp-edged as he’d been remembering it. The brown eyes stared, wide and unblinking. Ye gods! Salamander thought. He’s trying to ensorcel me right through the stone!

  ‘It won’t work,’ Salamander thought to him. ‘You’ve got to be close to someone’s body to ensorcel them, you dolt!’

  In his mind he heard the raven squawk. The eyes vanished. The mazrak had learned at least some of his dweomer by rote, Salamander could suppose, rather than from first principles.

  Salamander wrapped the pyramid in his old shirt, secured the bundle with the thong, then laid
it beside him on the grass. When he glanced at the horizon, he saw that the sun was perhaps an hour away from setting. What would Dallandra be doing? he wondered. He considered contacting her, but his stomach growled alarmingly, reminding him that he’d left his rations back at camp. He got up, then bent over to pick up his bundle. Just as he touched it, he heard the rush of wings behind him.

  The raven mazrak slammed into him and sent him sprawling on his face into the grass. Salamander rolled over, got to his knees, and grabbed for the bundle, but the mazrak had seized it with strong claws. Flapping hard, he rose into the air. Salamander scrambled up, ran after, and leapt as high as could to snatch at the bundle. Not high enough—he fell flat on the ground. The raven shrieked in triumph and flew off, heading for the forest. Salamander got up and ran a few yards after him before he realized the chase was hopeless.

  ‘You filthy scavenger!’ he screamed after him. ‘You foul and scabrous carrion crow! You—you—’ He stopped and panted for breath. He could transform and fly after, he supposed, but by the time he stripped off his clothing and worked the dweomer, the mazrak would have such a long lead on him that he’d never catch up. He could only stand and watch while the raven dwindled to a black speck in the sky, then disappeared.

  From the direction of the camp he heard a human voice yelling his name. He turned to see Gerran, running towards him with drawn sword.

  ‘What in the name of the Lord of Hell was that?’ Gerran called out. ‘Are you unharmed?’

  ‘Unharmed I am,’ Salamander called back, ‘except for my wounded pride. As to what—a thieving bird.’

  Gerran stopped and sheathed his sword, then waited, his arms crossed over his chest, for Salamander to walk over and join him.

  ‘A bird, was it?’ Gerran said. ‘Biggest blasted bird I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Well, what else could it have been?’ Salamander forced out a smile.

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you. It didn’t look like a young dragon. Didn’t smell like one, either.’

  ‘How perspicacious you are, Gerro, clear of eye and keen of mind, astute—’

  ‘That’s enough blather, gerthddyn. What was it?’