Wizard's Daughter

He arched his back, gained leverage with his legs, and kicked his feet with all his strength into the Tiber's belly. It howled and he rolled over and whipped his legs up and closed them around the beast's neck and hauled it down over him. She swung with all her might at the Tiber's head, a blow so powerful the branch shuddered in her hands and her arms trembled with the force of it. The Tiber twisted its head about to look up at her and she hit its head again, even harder this time. The branch split apart in her hands and yel­low sand gushed out.

  The Tiber said, "Nay, mistress, do not kill me. I saw the man reach out to you and believed he would hurt you. Do not kill me, mistress. A branch from the yellow Sillow tree is a mighty weapon, no human before has known to use it."

  Now this was a shock, Nicholas thought, and released his legs from about the Tiber's neck. The Tiber slowly rolled off him and came to its four feet, shaking its shaggy brown coat. No, not entirely brown, there were dark blue stripes across his back. Then it stood there, head down, panting.

  Rosalind dropped the stick, watched more yellow sand spill out of it. "I'm sorry," she said to the branch. "I'm sorry."

  Nicholas came up to his feet. He stared from her to the Tiber, now rubbing its head against some outcropping rocks. "Look at me, Tiber. Sarimund did not write that you could speak. He wrote only that you were our enemy. How can you speak? How can we understand you?"

  The beast raised its ugly head. "The Tiber is the enemy to everything, man included, but not your enemy, my lord."

  My lord?

  "I do not understand this," Nicholas said. "Sarimund wrote we were to make friends with the red Lasis so we would be protected from you. Why do you call her mistress? Why do you call me lord? Why aren't you our enemy? We are human. I am a man."

  "You will find that all things are possible here in the Pale, my lord," said the Tiber, and Nicholas was certain he heard a snicker in the beast's voice. Before their eyes, the Tiber be­gan to shimmer. Slowly, it turned into a dragon, and they both knew to their boots that this was a Dragon of the Sallas Pond that Sarimund had described. His snout was gold, his eyes bright emeralds, and on his back were huge triangular scales, studded with diamonds. The dragon rolled its emerald eyes at them. "Behold, I am not a Tiber. This is the first time I have taken its shape. A nasty creature, the Tiber, all rage inside, only eating and killing on its tiny mind. I had no idea. I won't do that again, no matter the possible sport of it."

  The dragon slewed its mighty head toward Rosalind and its tail thumped, making the earth shudder. "You have great strength in your arm, mistress. Forgive me, my lord, I hon­estly thought you were an attacker. Now I see clearly that you are not. And the mistress, she knew to strike me with a branch from the yellow Sillow tree. It is an amazing thing." The dragon bowed to her, folding its huge wings briefly over its head. Then it looked up and stared upward at the three bloodred moons.

  "You are no god," Nicholas said, and stared at the dragon in its whirling emerald eyes.

  The dragon slewed its head back toward Nicholas. "Of course I am."

  "No, you cannot be, otherwise you would have realized exactly who I was immediately. You would have known I wasn't going to hurt her. You would not have attacked me." He shrugged, "Or, if you are a god, then you must be very new at it."

  Rosalind said, "Taranis only sings, at least that is what I have read. You are speaking to us."

  "No, I am thinking to you. I don't sing well."

  The dragon stretched out his formidable wings and rose straight up, a dozen feet into the air, and hovered there, wings barely moving, dramatically silhouetted against the three bloodred moons, a fearsome sight, but Nicholas wasn't impressed; he was angry. He waved his fist upward. "Stop your games, dragon, I am not afraid of you. Is your name Taranis? Stop your posing and your pathetic efforts at intim­idation. If you wish lessons in that fine art, ask me to teach you. Now, I command you to come here and tell us what is going on."

  "I know who you are," the dragon said as his mighty wings flapped and he rose higher, whipping up the yellow sand that had fallen from the Sillow branch. A lick of flame snaked out of his mouth, and he quickly swallowed it, his massive neck rippling with the effort. "Yes, I know well who you are, my lord. I had flecks of desert sand in my eyes and did not see you properly." Then he winged higher and higher, until he was as large as the middle bloodred moon. He paused a moment, on purpose, of course, posing again, and they saw his black silhouette against the bloodred moon and he looked like a mad painting in a storybook. They heard a voice so close it sounded right behind them, "Be­ware the Tiber. He is more vicious than one of those Blood Rock wizards. Seek out the red Lasis. As for Sarimund, who knows what that human wizard will do?"

  Both Nicholas and Rosalind whirled about but there was nothing there.

  Nicholas shook his head. "Imagine, that damnable dragon only thought that advice to us, curse him." He paused, lightly touched his fingers to Rosalind's hair.

  Rosalind said, "The dragon, he called you lord and me mistress. I wonder why. If he is a Dragon of the Sallas Pond, then why all the games? Oh, yes, I forgot—a rule of magic."

  "The next time he flies near us, I wish to know if being 'my lord' grants me special favors in the Pale."

  He brought her close against him, felt the pounding of her heart against his. He said against her cheek, "How did you know to break off a branch from the yellow Sillow tree and strike the Tiber's head with it?"

  She said. "I didn't think, I simply did it. Oh, dear, I be­lieve the tree groaned."

  Nicholas began to rub his hands up and down her back. She hadn't seemed to notice she was wearing a gown that a medieval lady might wear, or a lady from further back than that, a lady who tended altars at Stonehenge. "It's all right. You saved me and I thank you. I hope you gave that bloody dragon a powerful headache, it would serve him right." He stared down at her a moment, streaked his hand through her hair, twisted a red curl around his finger. "Rosalind , before the Tiber attacked, you became someone else, or rather, per­haps you shifted toward someone else. You realize that, don't you?"

  Slowly, she nodded against his shoulder. "I know only that I am different here in the Pale, hath how I look and my clothes. Where is Sarimund?"

  She drew back in his arms. She looked away from him, out over the vast barren plain between the Vale of Augur and Mount Olyvan.

  "Rosalind ?" He tightened his hold on her and whispered against her ear, "Isabella?"

  "I must stop her, Nicholas. I told you, now that I'm here, her hand is no longer stayed. She is evil, she will kill him."

  He asked, "Is Epona also a seer? Did she look into the fu­ture and foresee her own death if she allowed her son, this Prince Egan, to grow to manhood?"

  Rosalind spoke, but her voice was deeper, with an odd lilt to it. "I believe it was Latobius, the god of the mountains and the sky, who saw the devastation of Blood Rock come to pass. He is both a god and a magician, you know. He feels so very much. He is oftentimes in pain because of others' ac­tions. Were Egan to die, it would distress him unutterably." She looked down. "My belt is gold, all thin threads twisted together. And my hair is longer."

  "You look like a princess, or perhaps a priestess."

  He sounded calm and accepting, but he didn't know what was happening to Rosalind , he knew only that he couldn't let it matter now. He heard a soft blowing noise and looked down. He took her hand and together, they watched the yel­low sand blow over the two halves of the Sillow branch, though there was not the slightest wind to whip the sand up. He watched as the two branch halves came back together, their fit perfect. They watched the blowing yellow sand move over the branch, slowly disappear into it. Sealing it?

  Without thinking, Nicholas picked up the branch. He walked back to the yellow Sillow tree and set the branch carefully against the jagged hole in the tree. It settled in in­stantly. He stepped back, heard a sigh of pleasure, and knew he should be surprised, but he wasn't. "I am a powerful mender of trees," he called back to Rosalind. "I d
id not even require a needle or thread."

  "It is because you are a wizard," she said matter-of-factly, and came up beside him. She touched the branch, bent it a bit, and nodded. It was again firmly attached.

  Nicholas heard a loud popping sound off to his left, like a gun's report, and pulled her behind him as he whirled about.

  47

  There was another popping sound, and another, louder and louder.

  Nicholas threw back his head and yelled, "Stop that infer­nal noise, do you hear me? It is not frightening, merely an­noying. Stop it, I command you!"

  The wild cannon shots stopped.

  Silence fell around them.

  "That was the dragon," Nicholas said. "I won't put up with such nonsense." His voice sounded cold and impatient. And now, like her, he looked different—his hair longer, framing his face in a wild black tangle, making him look barbaric, an ancient warrior primed for violence. He was no longer wearing his black cloak. He was now dressed in black breeches, a billowing white shirt, and black boots to his knees. He looked both dangerous and violent. She reached out her hand to touch his forearm. "Are you all right?"

  He shook his head impatiently. "Of course. I am simply as I should be here in the Pale. Just as are you."

  His Pale counterpart, just as Isabella was hers, well, it made sense. Or an illusion, just as Sarimund had warned them about. She said, "You look like a warrior."

  "The differences in us, we will ask Sarimund, if that no-account writer shows himself." He felt only mildly curious at the changes in himself, and not at all alarmed. "Don't worry. We will deal with it. We must find a red Lasis."

  When they turned back, they saw a beautiful creature as red as the bloodred moons in the heavens standing in the cave entrance. It looked sleek, as if its coat were brushed every day, the muscles in its legs thick, its back wide, its neck long and graceful. It looked like a cross between a Shetland pony and an Arabian. Its eyes were huge in its long narrow face, a dark vivid gray, and filled with a sort of glowing light.

  The red Lasis said nothing, merely gazed at them. It had absurdly long eyelashes. Nicholas knew in that instant that the red Lasis was very vain about its long eyelashes, and he thought, Yet another small curiosity.

  He said, holding perfectly still, keeping Rosalind plas­tered against his side, "Are you Bifrost?"

  The red Lasis bowed his head.

  "You are the oldest red Lasis in the Pale?"

  Bifrost sang in a beautiful sweet voice,

  Yes, I am he. Yes, I am old. I came before time. So it is told.

  Not more poetry and had rhymes.

  Bifrost said, "It is not such a bad rhyme. Yes, yes, I can hear your thoughts. You are harsh. Rhymes are difficult. Let us speak then in human talk."

  Nicholas said, "Sarimund wrote you would protect us from the Tiber. But you were not here when we came into the Pale."

  Bifrost slowly nodded. He chanted this time. "I am the only remaining red Lasis in the Pale. My mate was killed by a moon storm—" At Nicholas's raised eyebrow, Bifrost said, "The storm comes occasionally when the three bloodred moons are full. Perhaps every thousand years or so, there is a moon storm and the moons are shoved together. There is a horrible rending noise that brings all out to see what is hap pening. Huge flaming spears of sheered-off moon, glowing red, fall to the ground. That time, unfortunately, one of the flaming spears killed my mate, who was standing beside a sharp-toothed angle tree. I am alone. However, the Tiber don't know this."

  Once in a thousand years? "When did this happen?" Rosalind asked.

  "Perhaps at the last full moon, but I doubt that can be true whenever I think about it carefully. My cousins are black and brown, a dull bunch with no imagination, always com­plaining, the lot of them. Even the Tiber doesn't like to eat them, much too salty, so it is said. But the Dragons of the Sallas Pond say their meat is beyond sweet. However, the dragons do not eat meat so I wonder how they could know.

  "The Tiber still do not realize I am the only red Lasis left in the Pale. They are that stupid.

  "I came to see that you were all right, that you survived your tussle with Taranis's son, Clandus, a spoiled little but-tel, that one. You both did very well."

  "What is a buttel?" Rosalind asked.

  The red Lasis batted his long eyelashes at her. "A buttel is a particularly noxious creature that is forever trying to make himself more important than he is. I would kill all the miser­able buttel if I were not so depressed." Bifrost dipped his head down and sighed.

  After a few moments of silence, which neither Nicholas nor Rosalind wished to break, he raised his head again and spoke with a bit more vigor. "Perhaps it was a foolish thing you did, my lord, telling Clandus he wasn't a god, though it is quite true. A Dragon of the Sallas Pond must do great deeds to gain the state of godness."

  Nicholas said, "Who decides whether or not to make a

  Dragon of the Sallas Pond a god? What can possibly be higher than a god?"

  Bifrost blinked his very long eyelashes, his head down again so both of them could better see the amazing length and thickness. "On precious occasions, a golden shell cracks open and a dragon rolls out, all tiny and wet, its wings plas­tered against its body. It grows quickly, hopefully in both its brain and in its body, and is then offered tasks to perform."

  "Rather like Hercules in earth mythology?" Rosalind asked.

  Bifrost said, "I don't know of any Hercules, all I know is that if the Dragon of the Sallas Pond is successful, he changes—both his status in the Pale and his abilities. He is able to impress his will and wishes sufficiently upon all the wizards and witches who dwell in the fortress of Blood Rock to prevent them from butchering every creature here in the Pale. I will tell you, he once controlled them easily, but now their depravity makes them stronger, more conniving. Now they occasionally try to do him harm though they pre­tend to worship him, to admire him. They should be thrown into the river and sucked down by the demons who rule the underrealm. My mate once tangled with an underrealm de­mon and survived." Bifrost paused a moment, then looked at Nicholas. "You wonder what creature or being is above a god. There must be something, I suppose, else how do the Dragons of the Sallas Pond know what tasks to perform? Who judges them? I shall contemplate this mystery in those moments when I am not mourning the loss of my mate.

  "Now Clandus is offended and has doubtless flown back to his cliff to huddle next to a fire in his mother's cave, his wings spread, naturally, to protect his fire from the flying creatures. It will be interesting to see what Taranis does after Clandus whines in his ear about how loathsome you and the mistress are. Taranis hates sulking, and that is what Clandus is doing right at this moment."

  "I hope that a father dragon disciplines the son by smiting him hard with his tail," Nicholas said.

  The red Lasis bowed his head in agreement, his thick lashes fluttering. They heard his deep voice, amused now. "It seems like only yesterday that Taranis and I wagered about your coming and what would happen. But again, my mate's death seems such a short time ago as well.

  "I have waited for you, my lord, and you, mistress. It is a strange thing to see you. mistress, as a woman and not the small girl whose face Sarimund placed in my mind. As for you, my lord, you are yourself and yet also the boy.

  "And there is Epona, a witch who is vicious to her soul, though I do not know if she has a soul; probably not. She kills cleanly, no madness for gore in her. There is not a wiz­ard in Blood Rock who isn't afraid of her, or, at the same time, who doesn't admire her immensely. She is very dan­gerous, my lord. I pray you will not forget that."

  Rosalind said, "But she wanted Sarimund."

  "That is so."

  "Because he is so beautiful?" Rosalind asked. "That is so as well."

  "What is your wager with Taranis?" Rosalind asked.

  "Taranis wagered you wouldn't come, mistress, that the passage of time had distorted what should happen, but you are here. You are very powerful, both of you. I wagered you woul
d come, that you would save Prince Egan, that my lord would indeed pay his debt to you, for both your lines are powerful."

  Rosalind asked, "What was your prize if you won the wa­ger with Taranis?"

  "Taranis swore to intercede for me with the wizard Be-lenus. He is more powerful than he should be, Belenus is. with his big white teeth. The fiend cursed me to shepherd about the occasional magician who found his way to the Pale. He laughed, said since my mate was dead I had more than enough time to see that the few straggling humans who wander into the Pale do not end up Tiber victuals."

  "What did you do to bring down Belenus's curse?' Nicholas asked.

  "He did not come to my mate's interment. My grief was great, and so was my anger. I sent an army of black snails to invade his living quarters on Blood Rock. They naturally found their way into his bed to sleep with him at night. Be­lenus cursed me for it. And so I have protected the pathetic magicians who have come here for a very long time now, surely a millennium. Perhaps.

  "At last you have come, both of you. Mistress, I watched you save his lordship by breaking off a yellow Sillow branch and striking Clandus with it. My lovely eyelashes thickened with the excitement of witnessing what you did so naturally, without a human's infernal questioning or doubts. I was con­vinced at that point that you were the two predicted to come to the Pale, even more so when his lordship reattached the branch to the yellow Sillow tree. I have seen that done only once in my life. By Epona. Ah, but withal, I must make cer­tain you are indeed what you say you are." He stopped and suddenly opened his mouth and sang to the three blood moons in a beautiful baritone:

  I dream of beauty and sightless night

  I dream of strength and fevered might

  I dream I'm not alone again

  But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

  Without hesitation, Rosalind sang back to him, joyously, her beautiful voice filling the silent Pale night:

  I was small and I was weak He left me broken, without a name But I lived and now I seek What to do to end the game.

  "Ah," said Bifrost, "it is time for you to ride Taranis, the Dragon of the Sallas Pond, to the fortress on Blood Rock."