The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [70]
“Not about Wynni.”
“Not about Wynni. About a book, a big big book with a dragon on the cover.”
“Dragon?” Avain grinned wide, exposing her oddly large teeth. “Avain see a dragon?”
“Be it that you can?”
Once again she bent her head to her scrying basin. This time, however, she shook her head in a no. The tears came back to her eyes.
“No dragon,” she said, “no book, no blanket, no dragon.”
Blanket? Laz thought. Ah, she took the word “cover” that way!
“Mama will be coming back with food for you in just a bit, my sweet,” Angmar said. “Worry not, and my thanks.”
Avain smiled, sunny again.
“Does it gladden your heart to be home?” Mara asked her.
“Home be good.” Avain’s smile grew broader. “Bad Alban. No dragons in Alban.”
“A serious lack, no doubt,” Laz said, “in any place.”
Avain stuck her tongue out at him, a normal pink tongue, albeit huge. What did I expect? Laz thought. A split like a snake’s? Just that, he realized, to match her strangely round eyes, green and lashless.
“Mara make bread,” Avain said. “Wynni gone.”
“I know not how to make bread,” Mara said, smiling at her. “Lonna will make bread.”
“You know, my sweet,” Angmar said. “Though you be the Lady of the Isle, with your sister gone, it behooves you to help Lonna at her tasks. She be old, indeed, older no doubt than you ken or can imagine.”
“It be so hot in the kitchen, and smoky.” Mara turned toward the door and took a few steps. “I shan’t work there.”
“I did warn you, did I not?” Angmar followed her. “Never have you honored your sister’s work enough. Now you shall see how much she did.”
Mara said a few words in Dwarvish, then stalked off with Angmar right behind, talking in the same language. Laz heard them arguing all the way down the stairs. By the time he caught up with them outside, their argument had become heated.
Laz considered the swaying pale leaves of the apple trees. He might as well attempt to scry for the book, he decided, with a living focus like the leaves. Once again the thick etheric water veil surrounding the island defeated him. When I leave, he thought, I’ll be able to scry then. The book, while interesting, lacked any real meaning for him, but these days Sidro was always in his thoughts.
In the warmth of an Alban spring day, the apple blossoms in Domnal Breich’s steading hung heavy on the branches. Domnal himself was weeding his vegetable garden when Father Colm came puffing up to the front gate. The priest paused to mop his red face with the sleeve of his cassock, then called out a hallo. Domnal laid down his hoe and strolled over.
“Come in, Father.” Domnal reached for the latch. “Cool yourself with some well water.”
“I can’t stop, but my thanks,” Colm said. “I just came to bring you the news. Those witches and their flying island have disappeared. When my lord’s shepherd was chasing down lost sheep after the storm, he saw that it was gone.”
Domnal tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. Dimly he was aware of Jehan, walking out of the front door.
“I just wanted to make sure,” Colm said, “that your lad was safe at home.”
Jehan cried out, then covered her mouth with both hands.
“He’s not.” Domnal forced himself to speak calmly. “He never came home last night.”
Colm crossed himself, then did it again for good measure. “I’ll pray for him,” the priest said. “I’d advise you to do the same.”
Jehan began to weep, then turned and rushed for the house. Domnal heard the door slam hard.
“I will,” Domnal said. “And my thanks for the news.”
The priest murmured a blessing, made the sign of the cross over them both, then set off down the road, heading for Lord Douglas’ dun. For a long time Domnal stood at the gate, clutching the wooden bar with both hands, watching until the priest disappeared. “Evandar’s doing,” he said aloud. “I’d damn his soul, but it would be a waste of breath.”
In his mind he could hear the words of an old song:
“The road to Heaven’s a high road
The road to Hell runs low.
In between on no road at