The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [35]
Within the pillar a point of violet light bloomed, grew larger, and stretched into a vertical line of violet light. The line thickened, swirled, and formed at last into the tenuous shape of a woman.
“Why do you call upon me?” the spirit said. “What do you wish to know?”
“I wish to know about Haen Marn, the island in the planes of form that’s a shadow of this island.”
“Not of this island, but of another. I know not where that lies.”
“If you do not know, how may I find out?”
“I know not that, either. You must ask the Lady of the Black Stone Isle, she who dwells on the plane of matter and death.”
“How may I find her?”
“Go to the island.” A trace of annoyance crept into the spirit’s voice. “Even a fleshly creature such as you should know this. Go to the island and ask her.”
“The island has fled. I don’t know where it lies.”
“Then summon it.”
“I don’t know how to summon it.”
“The island has its own summons. You need not ask me. Mospleh, mospleh, mospleh.”
“I don’t know what mospleh means.”
Inside her pillar, the spirit frowned. “Look to the metal of the moon and to the moon herself at her first waxing.”
“What—”
But the spirit was growing thin, fading, turning back into a strand of violet light, gleaming against silver. The pillar swirled once, then sank slowly back into the island. Valandario felt herself take flight, swooped down, circled round, saw below her the ritual sword, gleaming in the rising sun. She let herself drop, then settled feet first onto the hard metal.
The vision disappeared. She was back, slipping a little on the wet grass as she stepped off the sword blade. She stamped thrice on the ground, then picked up the sword and cut through the circle.
“May any Wildfolk bound by this ceremony go free! It is over!” Val called out and stamped again for good measure. With a sigh she wiped the mud on the point of her sword off on the side of her boots.
“I gather the evocation called something forth,” Dallandra said. “I could hear your questions. Did the spirit ever answer?”
“Oh, yes, but we’re not much farther along than we were before. You know, there are times when I get really tired of spirits and their blasted riddles.”
“So do I,” Dallandra paused and glanced back to the spot where the camp had stood. “It looks like the alar’s ready to ride out. Tell me what you saw while we walk back, will you? I can’t bear to wait till we make camp again.”
Branna had seen Valandario and Dallandra leave camp for a dweomer working. During that day’s ride she burned with curiosity, but she knew that she had no right to pry. She could only hope that Dallandra would choose to tell her at the evening meal.
As dweomer apprentices, Branna and Neb generally ate with their masters rather than cooking for themselves. The various members of the royal alar took turns feeding the Wise Ones—a good thing, since Branna had never cooked a meal in her life. Calonderiel usually joined them as well. While Branna was expecting Neb as usual that evening, he never arrived.
“I don’t know where he went,” she told Dallandra. “Do you?”
“I don’t.” Dallandra glanced at Calonderiel. “Have you seen him?”
His mouth full of herbed greens, Cal nodded and hastily swallowed. “I did,” the banadar said. “He told me he was fasting, but he didn’t say why. I assumed you’d set him some practice.”
“Naught of the sort!” Dallandra briefly looked sour. “Mayhap he doesn’t feel well or suchlike.”
“Starve a cold, feed a fever,” Cal said. “Or is it the other way round?”
Dallandra mugged disgust, then handed him a piece of soda bread, which he took with a grin.
For the rest of the meal, Dallandra said little. Branna went back to her own tent with her curiosity still burning. Neb returned much later in the evening. Under a pale dweomer light Branna was laying out their blankets when Neb strode into the tent.
“You’ve been talking to Dallandra about me, haven’t you?” Neb said.
“I haven’t.” Branna looked up in some surprise. “What—”
“Well, someone told her I was fasting.”
“It was Calonderiel, not me. It happened