The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [4]
A slender lass, she stood barely up to his chest. She wore her glossy raven-dark hair clasped back. Cornflower-blue eyes dominated her delicate face. To set off her coloring she wore a finely woven plaid in a blue-and-gray tartan—cloth that Mic the Dwarf had brought home from Din Edin, earned by his trade in gems and jewelry. When she saw Dougie, she smiled and hurried forward to help him onto the pier.
“I’d hoped to see you today,” Berwynna said.
“Well, I truly came to see you,” Dougie said, “but I told my mother that I need to see your Mic. I was wondering if he’ll be traveling south soon.”
“He will.” Berwynna’s smile disappeared. “I hate it when you go a-trading with Uncle Mic.”
“He’s got to have some kind of guard on the road.” Dougie grinned at her. “Do you miss me when I’m gone?”
“That, too. Mostly I wish I could go with you. I want to see Din Edin, and I don’t care how bad it smells.”
“A journey like ours is no place for a lass.”
“If you say that again, I’ll kick you. You sound like Mam.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but—”
“Oh, don’t let’s talk about it!”
Berwynna turned on her heel and strode down the pier to the island, leaving Dougie to hurry after, babbling apologies. By the time they reached the door of the manse, she’d forgiven him. Hand in hand, they walked into the great hall of Haen Marn.
On either side of the big square room stood stone hearths, one of them cold on this warm spring day. At the other an ancient maidservant stirred a big iron kettle over a slow fire. The smell and steam of a cauldron of porridge spread through the hall. The boatmen came trooping in and sat down at one of the plank tables scattered here and there on the floor. At the head table sat Angmar, her graying pale hair swept back and covered by the black headscarf of a widow. When Dougie and Berwynna joined her, she greeted them with a pleasant smile.
“Come to talk to Mic, Dougie?” Angmar spoke the Alban tongue not well but clearly.
“I have, my lady,” Dougie said. “Will he be needing my sword soon?”
“Most likely. You can ask him after he’s joining us.”
One of the boatmen brought Dougie a tankard of ale, which he took with thanks. He had a long sip and looked around the great hall. In one corner a staircase led to the upper floors. In the opposite corner old Otho, a white-haired, stoop-shouldered, and generally frail dwarf, sat on his cushioned chair, glaring from under white bushy brows at nothing in particular. Berwynna’s sister, Marnmara, stood near the old man while she studied the wall behind him.
The two young women had been born in the same hour, and they shared the same coloring. Marnmara, however, was even smaller than her sister, a mere wisp of a woman, or so Dougie thought of her. At times, he could have sworn that she floated above the floor by an inch or two, as if she weren’t really in the room at all but a reflection, perhaps, in some invisible mirror. At others, she walked upon the ground like any lass, and he would chide himself for indulging in daft fancies about her.
Haen Marn’s great hall tended to breed fancies. The dark oak panels lining the walls were as heavily decorated as the Holy Book in Lord Douglas’ chapel. Great swags of carved interlacements, all tangled with animals, flowers, and vines, swooped down from each corner and almost touched the floor before sweeping up again. In among them were little designs that might have been letters or simply odd little fragments of some broken pattern. Berwynna had told him of her sister’s belief that the decorations had some sort of meaning, just as if they’d been a book indeed. Since Dougie couldn’t read a word in any language, it was all a great mystery to him.
“Think she’ll ever puzzle it out?” Dougie said to Berwynna.
“She tells me she’s very close. Tirn’s been a great help to her. He knows what some of the sigils are.”
“Sigils?”
“It means marks like those little ones.” Berwynna shrugged. “That’s all I