Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
deeper. ‘Even the rich folk consult Haydon, since they know he keeps his mouth shut. Was he also a sympath in Tarn?’
‘We call them shaman-healers. Dev-Haydon was one, and so am I.’
Her reply inspired a drawn-out account of bodily miseries suffered by the boatman and his family, along with requests for free medical advice that lasted until the punt finally drew up at an isolated dock. Two small craft were tied there – a wooden dinghy and a peculiar elongated skiff fashioned from sheets of some thin material resembling treebark. The house served by the dock stood alone on an island that was otherwise densely forested with strange tall trees having narrow trunks crowned with mops of feathery leaves. One of the dock-pilings was adorned with a large carving of an owl, hung about with garlands of snail-shells. Another bore a brass ship’s bell on a bracket and a lantern with a guttering flame.
‘The sympath’s sign,’ Momor said, indicating the nightbird’s image. ‘Both an invitation and a warning. Owls are rare in this part of the world, omens of wisdom because they see in the dark…but also of sudden death because they swoop to kill on silent wings. Haydon’s not to be trifled with, either.’
He sculled his punt up to the dock and tied the line to a cleat, then helped Induna to climb out. ‘Will you want me to wait, mistress? I’ll have to charge triple. My own bed’s waiting.’
‘No. You need not stay.’ She gave him his fee. ‘Am I supposed to ring this bell?’
‘I’d recommend it.’ Momor gave a laugh without much humor in it, slipped the line, and glided briskly away. In a few moments he was lost to sight around a bend in the canal.
Induna studied the owl image for a moment. The bird had been Deveron’s heraldic cognizance and this was certainly his house. Unlike most of the flimsy dwellings she had seen, it was well-constructed of squared logs, Tarnian-style, with a covered porch surrounding it. Its roof was slate slabs, steeply pitched to shed rain, and the chimney was of stone. The windows that faced the canal were not large. They had been fitted with storm-shutters and were curtained by what looked like straw matting. Slivers of lamplight penetrated them, casting golden quadrangles on the ground. The front door was made of iron-bound planks. If he wished, Haydon the Sympath could turn his house into a rather tight little fort.
And that’s why you never sent word to me, Induna said to herself. Deveron had not wanted to risk her life, should Ironcrown’s assassins hunt him down.
She stood irresolute for a few more minutes, quite certain that he knew she was there, not wanting to disturb the gentle jungle sounds with the brass bell’s clangor. Finally, with the folded cloak tucked under one arm and her fardel under the other, she walked down the dock and along the stone-bordered path to the porch. Then she knocked on the door.
It opened almost immediately. He had been waiting.
He wore an unadorned tunic and trews of dark green camlet, well worn and not especially clean; but his belt was finely tooled and had a golden buckle. Around his neck a flat gold case engraved with an owl hung from a handsome chain. There were new lines at the corners of his vibrant blue eyes, and his mouth had grown thinner and tighter. He had a short beard and a neat moustache. His nut-brown hair was touched with grey and cut shorter than she remembered, combed over his forehead and ears like a close-fitting helmet.
‘Welcome, love,’ he said quietly. ‘Come in and be at home.’
In the dragon’s devouring abyss, darker than night and shot through with giddy red sparks, Deveron Austrey waited angrily for death. Meanwhile, he dreamed of the time Induna finally found him.
She came with tentative steps into the house’s sitting room, which was separated from the apotheck workbenches and shelves at the rear by a long counter with a half-door set into it. The fireplace against the lefthand wall held a small nest of glowing coals in its grate. A steaming teakettle hung from an iron crane and a covered stoneware crock stood on the warming-hob.
She seemed at a loss for words, still carrying the folded cloak and the leather case. Her smile was almost fearful and her eyes remained fixed on his face, as if comparing it with another long remembered.
‘Give me your things,’ he said gently. ‘Be seated in the cushioned chair by the table. Is this all you have with you, or did you leave more baggage in town? I can have it sent for.’
‘There’s nothing else. The fardel holds everything I needed for the voyage. I only just arrived this evening on a clipper ship. I – I came directly to your house from the harbor.’
‘I see.’ He hung her cloak on a wallhook and placed the carrying case beneath it. ‘Have you eaten?’ When she shook her head, he fetched a bowl and a spoon and ladled out a generous portion of lamb pottage from the crock on the hob.
‘I have herbal tea steeping in the pot – chamomile, lemon, and valerian to soothe the mind. Shall I pour you some, and perhaps add a splash of good Stippenese brandy? I was going to have some myself before retiring.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘The stew is delicious. I was near starving. The ship’s mess was served early in the afternoon, and I was too nervous to eat much, knowing we were approaching your home.’
‘Help yourself to as much as you want. I usually break my morning fast with supper’s leftovers, but I’ll make us something much better tomorrow morning: buttered eggs with cocodrill sausage.’
He filled two plain pottery mugs, placing hers on the table and taking his own to an armchair that he pulled out from the wall.
‘Cocodrill? What manner of meat would that be?’ she asked.
‘The tail portion of a huge lizard that dwells in our jungle waterways. I make the sausage myself. Smoked and well-peppered, with onions and herbs, it’s fit for a king’s banquet.’
‘A king…’ She lowered her eyes to her food, then continued to eat in silence.
‘Is there still a price on my head?’ he inquired lightly.
‘The notices were taken down years ago.’
‘Ah. But I daresay the reward still stands, doesn’t it?’
‘I hope not,’ she murmured.
He paused in sipping his tea and leaned toward her. ‘Why? What do you mean?’
She shook her head and would not meet his gaze, so he left off asking questions, content to wait for her to explain herself in her own good time.
When she finished her meal he refilled their mugs and led her outside to the covered porch facing the canal. Several sturdy sling-stools with leather seats were set about a low stand, which held three little clay pots. Using his talent, he struck a finger-flame and touched it to the pots’ contents; fragrant smoke arose.
‘The resin’s smell keeps biting midges at bay most effectively. I wish we’d had it at our Deep Creek manorhouse.’
They sat side by side, drinking tea and listening to the night creatures. He had put out the lamp within the house and aside from the stars, the small lantern down on the dock gave the only light. She took a deep breath and reached for his hand. It was cool and rough with calluses.
‘I came to you for a reason, Deveron. I was sent by the Source.’
He said nothing, but his fingers tightened on hers.
‘He bespoke me some three weeks ago at the manor, giving me an urgent message for you. I left immediately. Tiglok’s sons carried me south to Mesta in their sloop, and there I took passage on an Andradhian clipper.’
‘This is the only reason you came, then.’ His voice was toneless. ‘You were compelled by that black manipulator. The One Denied the Sky has pulled you into his inhuman game. And now I suppose he seeks to re-enlist me as well.’
‘The choice to come here was my own, Deveron. I can’t deny how my heart leapt with joy at the prospect of seeing you once again, after so many years of not knowing whether