The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (49 page)

He felt suddenly cold when he realized that a character was exactly what he was seeing. There had been words worked into the painting. By trying to clear off the ivy, he was destroying what little was left of the art underneath. With a curse he let the flake fall. He had best not touch a thing until he learned how to go about saving the precious relics of this place he once had loved. At that thought he remembered someone who might help him, someone in fact who knew the original plan of the city almost as well as he did. First, though, he had to attend to his errant brother.

Cool with the scent of decay the sea-breeze lifted the leaves of unpruned trees and rustled in the weeds. Evandar flung himself into the air, stepped upon the wind, and let its eddying carry him through to the Rhiddaer and, he hoped, Shaetano.

The Gel da’Thae priests believe that the gods gave Cerr Cawnen to the human folk of the Rhiddaer as restitution for their sufferings at the hands of the Slavers, and at the time of which we speak, the town did seem divinely blessed. Fertile farmland surrounded the lake and yielded rich crops of oats and barley, twice what you could get for the same labor down in Arcodd. Although no one understood why, people who drank the steaming mineral waters of the lake grew strong bones and rarely lost their teeth in old age, even women who lived mostly on barley bread. The town lay at a juncture of merchant routes; Gel da’Thae from the west and Dwarven traders from the far east both came to Cerr Cawnen to trade with each other as well as the Rhiddaer folk. But the greatest boon of all lay hidden in the hills nearby, veins of moonstones and volcanic crystals in a rainbow of colors.

Trading in these stones had made Verrarc’s father rich, and his son knew a thing or two about merchanting himself. As a young lad he’d ridden east with the caravans and seen the life of the Dwarveholts in the northern mountains. He’d noticed that the folk raised only a few sheep and gathered little flax, either; most of their wool and linen came up from the Deverry borders, and an expensive commodity it was, too. On his own he brought one summer a few bales of fine yarns and ended up getting twelve times their value in worked jewelry. Late in the autumn the Gel da’Thae paid high for those trinkets, giving him the capital to buy cloth instead of yarn.

With his father long dead now, Verrarc had made his own fortune as a wool merchant, carrying gems only as a favor for longtime customers. There would come a day, he could see, when all the gems to be found had been found, but new lambs were born every spring to grow wool. Thanks to him the Weavers Guild had turned into a real power in Cerr Cawnen.

“I was ever so pleased when your da came to us about a marriage,” Emla remarked. “Your family does have a special place in Councilman Verrarc’s heart.”

“So we do,” Niffa said. “It gladdens me that you find favor in such.”

They were hiking up the path that spiralled around Citadel. The day hung cold but clear above them; sun glittered on snow below in the meadows that surrounded the town. Although Cronin knew everything there was to know about cloth and looms, Emla was the one with the head for money and business.

“There’ll be no harm in bringing you along for this bargaining,” Emla said. “And mayhap a little good, eh? I do like all my daughters to know how to drive a good bargain, and so you’d best start learning. Mayhap one day Demet will have a shop of his own, like.”

“That would be splendid, truly.”

They stopped just below the entrance to the councilman’s compound to catch their breaths. Emla brought a bone comb out of her pouch, pushed back her hood, and combed her hair, then handed it to Niffa to do the same.

“A tidy appearance never hurts, either,” Emla said.

They found Verrarc’s front door ajar, and when they stepped inside, they heard old Korla scolding someone at the top of her lungs while the someone snivelled and tried to make excuses. All at once Magpie came barrelling down the corridor and nearly ran into them. She looked at Niffa and Emla, burst into fresh tears, and went racing outside. Shuffling along in her floppy shoes, Korla came muttering after.

“There be a need on me to apologize, Mistress Emla,” Korla said. “I do lack the patience to deal with that lass. Too old I be, and the cold does ache my bones something fierce, too.”

“What be wrong?” Emla said.

“Ah, she did disturb somewhat of the master’s, and the woman did rebuke me.” Korla paused for a sneer. “Such a fine lady she be. But here, you’ve come to see the master, no doubt, not listen to me.”

Verrarc was waiting for them in his chair before the fire in his hall. He jumped up, sat Emla down in the other chair, then pulled over a bench so that Niffa could sit in the warmth.

“Well, Niffa,” he said, “nah nah nah, I mean Mistress Niffa now! And how do you fare?”

“Well, Councilman, and you?”

“Very well, thank you.” Yet Verrarc was looking this way and that, as if he saw trouble crouching in a corner. “Learning the wool trade, are you?”

“Mother Emla be good enough to let me watch and learn, truly.”

“Splendid, splendid! We’d best plan now for a good trading run in the spring.”

For a long while Emla and Verrarc discussed cloth while Niffa did her best to listen. Some weaves sold well to the Gel da’Thae, others to the Dwarven folk, but when it came to colors, everyone wanted a bright red that would neither run nor fade.

“No doubt!” Emla said. “Had I that secret I’d be as rich as you, Councilman. None that I know of lasts beyond a summer’s sun and a few good poundings at the riverbank.”

“And a true pity it is, then. Ah well. How goes your work? How many bales will you have for me come the snow melt?”

During the long conference that followed Niffa was hard-put to stay awake. The room was warm, the voices soothing, and she and her new husband had been sleeping little these nights. Once she did nod off, but she managed to jerk herself awake before Emla noticed. She was just wondering how soon they could go home when the door opened and Raena slipped into the room. Niffa went on guard, her sleepiness forgotten, as Raena walked in with nods to the others and sat down near Niffa on the bench. She was wearing a pair of loose grey dresses, kirtled at the waist like a proper married woman’s, and her hair was neatly done up under a scarf.

“I do hope I don’t intrude,” Raena said brightly.

“Not at all,” Verrarc said. “We’ve told each other what we need to.”

Her lips pressed tight, Emla nodded.

“I did wish to greet our guests.” Raena turned to Niffa and smiled. “Always it is pleasant to see you.”

“Ah well, my thanks.”

Raena was looking her full in the face. Her dark eyes seemed pools of shadow in the firelight, suddenly deep, suddenly dangerous, as if they would turn to pools of black ink that would drown her. Niffa felt as if Raena had reached out with both hands to grab her and force her to stare into those pools. With a wrench of will she broke away and stood up.

“Oh, my apologies,” Niffa said. “But my back, it does seem cramped, what with the drafts and all.”

“That bench, it be not the best we have,” Verrarc said. “It were better of me to have brought a chair from the other room,”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Councilman.” Emla rose with a nod his way. “I’d best be getting back. We do have a dinner to prepare and all.”

“Of course.” Raena forced out a smile. “But truly, Niffa, if you have leisure for it, these winter days, do come visit us. We might chat about things now and again.”

“My thanks.” Niffa felt like spitting at her. “But I do have my work back at the compound. I’m learning to spin, you see, and never have I done it before.”

“It’ll come to you, lass,” Emla said. “It’ll come. Well, my thanks, Councilman. I’ll be telling Cronin what you did say here.”

Rather than summoning Korla, Verrarc walked them to the door himself, then on an impulse, it seemed, grabbed his cloak from its peg.

“I’ll walk you down to the shore,” he said. “If I may?”

“Of course.” Emla lifted a surprised eyebrow. “Our pleasure, I’m sure.”

They walked in silence down the first turnings of the path, but just past the public granary, where the path widened, Verrarc paused.

“I do have a favor to ask,” he said. “If you could find it in your heart to forgive Raena, always would I be grateful to you. She be lonely, so lonely at times it aches my heart to see. Truly, our adultery was my fault as much, nay more than hers, and yet never am I scorned and shamed by the townsfolk.”

Emla sighed, glancing Niffa’s way, then back to Verrarc.

“Unjust it be, truly,” Emla said, “but a woman’s honor does break twice as fast as a man’s and does take twice the time to mend. Councilman, I hope that I speak within my bounds, but if you truly want the folk to forget and forgive, marry the poor woman, all right and proper, like. Some coins and suchlike scattered among the poor would not go amiss, either, at your wedding feast.”

Verrarc nodded, staring down at the path.

“I want to,” he said at last. “The Spirit Talker? She does refuse to bless us. I’ve asked her many a time now.”

Emla made a snorting sound.

“Werda be a holy woman and much favored by the gods,” Emla said. “I do think she forgets from time to time what life does give to the rest of us. If it would please you, Councilman, I’ll have a word with her.”

“Would you?” He looked up with a grin and seemed, at that moment, no older than Demet and as much in love. “Gratitude would fill my heart.”

“Then I’ll speak with her and soon. Now, do come along, Niffa. We’d best get home before the night’s cold settles down. Councilman, no need to walk with us the more.”

“If you’re sure? Very well, then, and my thanks, my humble thanks!”

With a cheerful wave Verrarc started back uphill. Emla waited until he was out of earshot.

“Now listen, Niffa,” she said. “Well do I understand why you’d not want some close friendship, like, with a slut like that Raena. But for the trading, it would be a grand thing to humor her. For the family, like. Do you see that?”

“I do.” Niffa felt a twist of disgust, deep in her stomach. “But it be not her ways with men that gripe my soul. There be some other feeling she does give me, like stepping on a dead animal out in a field.”

“Oh, now here! Your way of speaking, it be a strong one, baint? Let’s get back home. We’ll discuss all this over dinner.”

After he left Niffa and Emla, Verrarc took the shortcut between the boulder and the militia armory despite the frost lying heavy in the shadows. He’d taken it so many times since boyhood that he knew exactly where to put his feet. About halfway up he realized that someone was standing by the path and leaning against the trunk of an ancient pine.

“Councilman Verrarc?” the fellow stepped forward. “A word with you, if I may.”

“Of course. I do fear me I’ve forgotten your name.”

Tall and slender, wrapped in a blue cloak, the fellow looked human enough until Verrarc noticed his ears were long and pointed as well. His hair was an impossibly bright yellow and his eyes, a lurid dye-pot blue. He smiled in a lazy sort of way.

“You never knew my name to forget it, actually, but I’m Lord Havoc’s brother.”

Verrarc felt a chill run down his spine. Here in the shadows the fellow did indeed seem oddly weightless, as if he weren’t truly standing on the ground, and around the edges his flesh seemed translucent, as if he were made of murky water, not meat and bone.

“You may call me Lord Harmony,” he went on. “I’ve come with a warning for you.”

“Indeed?” Verrarc found his voice at last. “Come from where, good sir?”

“My own fair country, and far away does it lie. But you’d best keep an eye on that woman of yours.”

“Raena? What? How do you know—”

“My brother’s a great one for mischief, you see, and I try to keep a rope on his halter when I can. I’ve seen her worshipping him as if he were a god.”

“He’s not?”

“Not in the least. No more am I. The people to the south of you call us Guardians, and that name will do. But power we have, great power for good or ill, as I’ve learned over the last century or so. Don’t trust him, Verrarc, and you’d best put a rope on your woman’s halter as well.”

Verrarc gaped, struggling for words.

“The true gods dislike it when someone pretends to their rank,” Lord Harmony went on. “You might remind her of that nasty truth.”

“Here! And who might you be, to say such things?”

The fellow laughed, a long peal like the chime of a harp, and disappeared, leaving the last few notes of his laugh ringing behind him.

In a confusion of fear and anger Verrarc hurried up the hill and stormed into his compound, practically knocking Korla aside at the door. He found Raena sitting in one of the big chairs by the hearth with her feet up on a footstool. When she saw him, she smiled so beautifully that his rage dissolved in the thought of how much he loved her. At times he felt that if she ever left him, he would wither away and die like an abandoned child.

“What be troubling you, my love?” Raena said.

Verrarc took off his cloak and tossed it onto a chest, then flopped into the chair opposite her.

“Somewhat does trouble you,” Raena repeated. “What?”

“It does.” He stretched out his legs to savor the fire’s warmth. “Just now I did meet someone upon the road home. He said his name was Lord Harmony, and he did make the claim to be the brother of your Havoc.”

“Oho, so he
has
come meddling! Lord Havoc did warn me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He did tell me that he had a jealous brother who travelled where he did, spreading lies about him.”

“Indeed? I found this fellow strangely easy to believe. He did tell me that he and Havoc be not gods at all, but spirits of an ilk he did call Guardians.”

“Prattle.” Raena waved her hand as if to knock the lies buzzing around her from the air. “ ’Tis all it is, prattle and drivel.”

“It be a grave thing, Rae, to usurp the name of the gods. If this Harmony fellow be right, then—”

“He be wrong! Verro, how can you sit there and not listen to a word I say? Lord Havoc did warn me, I tell you, about this lackwit brother of his.”