Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [87]
“True spoken, when your people crossed it to be born into the world of Time.”
“And you said to me that I'd not be able to be born. Why?”
“Now that's a question I'll be glad to answer.” The old man laid his knife down and considered the apple. “You're a spirit of great power. On the riverbank most souls revert to their true form, you see, but you kept your illusions around you: body, clothes, the whole lot. Could you cast those off if you wanted to?”
“I've never tried. I can change from one thing to another. That I do know.”
“Ah. So could you change to your own true form?”
“What is it?”
“I can't tell you because I don't know.” The old man picked up the knife again. “If you don't know, you won't be able to change into it. And if you can't let go your power, well, then, you'll be stuck on this side of the white river.”
“A wisewoman told me once that if I don't cross that river, I'll just fade away and never be reborn.”
“She's doubtless right, which is a sad thing.”
“Twice as sad for me as for you, good sir.”
“I'll not argue that.” The old man cut a slice off the apple and ate it. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I've got no idea.” Evandar stood up. “Mayhap I'll think of somewhat.”
Evandar turned, took a few steps, then broke into a run. As he ran he leapt, and finally, with one last leap and a flutter of new-grown wings, he changed once again into the hawk.
This time Evandar flew toward the forest that lay beyond his lands at the juncture of more worlds than one. As he travelled he often paused and hovered on the wind while his sharp hawk's eyes searched the wild meadows below. Whenever he came this way, whether he flew or walked the mothers of all roads, he hunted for his brother, who had chosen to work mischief in the lands of men. So far, Shaetano had eluded him.
On this occasion, with his mind full of Salamander's problems, Evandar made only the most desultory of searches. The healer he had in mind, the elven dweomer-master Dallandra, lived at the moment in the north country of Deverry, hundreds of miles from Bardek. Normally Evandar could have taken Salamander and his family directly there on the magical roads that he knew so well, but circumstances were forcing him to postpone the journey. Even if Dallandra could cure Salamander eventually—and she'd warned Evandar that this was no sure thing—at the moment she was hauling a wagonload of other burdens. Bring him in the summer, she'd told Evandar, not before.
Evandar had never told her of his fears that his death lay close at hand, that perhaps it would strike him down long before the summer came. He needed to set in motion some current of events that would, eventually, sweep Ebañy home. As he flew, his mind turned to his fears, just as a man will repeatedly touch a boil upon his neck to make sure that it still torments him. Let his death come, if it must. But first he would keep his promises, to Ebañy's wife, to Dallandra, and especially his promise to Shaetano, his brother, that he would destroy him before he worked further harm.
Up in the north country of Deverry, the tardy spring lagged behind the Bardek season. Snow still streaked the hills round Cengarn and lay in sullen drifts against the stone walls. Yet the sunlight did shine brightly in the afternoons, and night took its time about falling as well. During the days, when the sun struck the window of her tower room, Dallandra would take down the ox hide that covered it and sit on the broad stone sill to let the warmth soak into her bones.
Down below her the ward of Dun Cengarn spread out, cobbled and frosted with half-frozen mud, circled with stone walls. She could smell it, too, even up as high as she was, perfumed by a winter's worth of stable sweepings and human filth, piled up near the main gates. Once spring arrived, some of the local farmers would come up and cart the mess away to spread on their fields. Everyone who'd wintered in the dun would bathe, too, in the spring rivers, and wash the clothes that had grown stiff