The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [16]
“I want that thing out of here!”
The glow disappeared. They had heard him. He felt sick, not with physical pain, but with shame that he’d turned into a coward. He got up and walked over to the window. Outside, the night lay clear and still. Moonlight streaked the water of the loch with an illusionary road, heading west. If only I could run along that back to the Northlands! Laz thought. Or if I could fly. He decided that the time had come for him to cast his cowardice aside and see what he could—or could not—do. It’s the only way you’ll ever heal, he told himself.
He stripped off his clothes with some difficulty, then stood naked at the window. When he called it forth, the mental image of the raven came to him. He worked with it, imagining the details of wing and head, until it seemed to live apart from his working as it stood on the windowsill. With a snap of will, he transferred his consciousness over to it. There he had an unexpected struggle, but at last it seemed that he looked out from the bird’s eyes at his body, slumped as if asleep on the floor.
Now came the hardest step, drawing the physical substance of his body into this new form. Once, the process had come easily to him. That night he tried three times and failed at every attempt. No matter how hard he concentrated, how carefully he recited the working, his stubborn lump of flesh stayed where it was, and the raven remained an image, a body of light, only. His mind kept slipping back, as well. At one moment he would be looking out of the raven’s eyes; at the next, he’d be seeing the strip of wall in front of his body. Finally, he realized that his body was panting for breath and dripping with sweat. He withdrew the raven image from the windowsill, banished it with the proper seal, and sat up, turning to lean against the wall while he let his breathing slow to normal.
“Squittering shits!” he said in the Gel da’Thae tongue. They were the only words that seemed appropriate.
Once he felt steady again, he got up and struggled back into his clothes. Why, oh, why, didn’t I listen to Sisi? The question was going to torment him for the rest of his life.
Moving as quietly as he could, he went downstairs and out to the cooler air of the apple grove. White blossoms hung thick on the branches like trapped moonlight. That morning the trees had barely begun to bud. He stared at the blossoms while his heart pounded in terror.
“How long did I sleep?” he whispered.
“Naught but a few hours,” Marnmara said from behind him. “Time on Haen Marn runs at its own pace.”
Laz spun around to find her holding up a pierced tin lantern. He could see her smiling in its dappled light.
“You’ve not been here long, Tirn,” Marnmara continued. “The island still has tricks to show you.”
“So it seems. No wonder my hands are healing so quickly.”
“That may be so, indeed.”
“May I ask you a question? Where are we? How does this island move itself?”
“As to the first, we be in a land called Alban. As to the second, I know not, nor do I know which is its true dwelling place. If we could return to the land that you and my mam call home, then mayhap I would know. My own dweomer should kindle then, like a flame shielded from the wind.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It be weak here.”
“What makes you think I have dweomer?”
“Oh, come now!” She laughed aloud. “Did you not send the dragon book to my chamber just now?”
“I—uh—” Laz felt his face burn with a blush that, he hoped, the darkness would cover. Had the spirits taken his words as a command? Or had he merely hurt their tender feelings? Spirits could be extremely touchy. He had no idea which it was, although he wasn’t about to admit his ignorance. “So, the spell worked, did it?”
“It did. The book did appear on white wings and settle onto a coffer in my chamber. So I did put it safely away inside.”
“I thought it would be best if you kept it