'Rosalind?' He tightened his hold on her and whispered against her ear, 'Isabella?'
'I must stop her, Nicholas. I told you, now that I'm here, her hand is no longer stayed. She is evil, she will kill him.'
He asked, 'Is Epona also a seer? Did she look into the future and foresee her own death if she allowed her son, this Prince Egan, to grow to manhood?'
Rosalind spoke, but her voice was deeper, with an odd lilt to it. 'I believe it was Latobius, the god of the mountains and the sky, who saw the devastation of Blood Rock come to pass. He is both a god and a magician, you know. He feels so very much. He is oftentimes in pain because of others' actions. Were Egan to die, it would distress him unutterably.' She looked down. 'My belt is gold, all thin threads twisted together. And my hair is longer.'
'You look like a princess, or perhaps a priestess.'
He sounded calm and accepting, but he didn't know what was happening to Rosalind, he knew only that he couldn't let it matter now. He heard a soft blowing noise and looked down. He took her hand and together, they watched the yellow sand blow over the two halves of the Sillow branch, though there was not the slightest wind to whip the sand up. He watched as the two branch halves came back together, their fit perfect. They watched the blowing yellow sand move over the branch, slowly disappear into it. Sealing it?
Without thinking, Nicholas picked up the branch. He walked back to the yellow Sillow tree and set the branch carefully against the jagged hole in the tree. It settled in instantly. He stepped back, heard a sigh of pleasure, and knew he should be surprised, but he wasn't. 'I am a powerful mender of trees,' he called back to Rosalind. 'I did not even require a needle or thread.'
'It is because you are a wizard,' she said matter-of-factly, and came up beside him. She touched the branch, bent it a bit, and nodded. It was again firmly attached.
Nicholas heard a loud popping sound off to his left, like a gun's report, and pulled her behind him as he whirled about.
47
There was another popping sound, and another, louder and louder.
Nicholas threw back his head and yelled, 'Stop that infernal noise, do you hear me? It is not frightening, merely annoying. Stop it, I command you!'
The wild cannon shots stopped.
Silence fell around them.
'That was the dragon,' Nicholas said. 'I won't put up with such nonsense.' His voice sounded cold and impatient. And now, like her, he looked different-his hair longer, framing his face in a wild black tangle, making him look barbaric, an ancient warrior primed for violence. He was no longer wearing his black cloak. He was now dressed in black breeches, a billowing white shirt, and black boots to his knees. He looked both dangerous and violent. She reached out her hand to touch his forearm. 'Are you all right?'
He shook his head impatiently. 'Of course. I am simply as I should be here in the Pale. Just as are you.'
His Pale counterpart, just as Isabella was hers, well, it made sense. Or an illusion, just as Sarimund had warned them about. She said, 'You look like a warrior.'
'The differences in us, we will ask Sarimund, if that no-account writer shows himself.' He felt only mildly curious at the changes in himself, and not at all alarmed. 'Don't worry. We will deal with it. We must find a red Lasis.'
When they turned back, they saw a beautiful creature as red as the bloodred moons in the heavens standing in the cave entrance. It looked sleek, as if its coat were brushed every day, the muscles in its legs thick, its back wide, its neck long and graceful. It looked like a cross between a Shetland pony and an Arabian. Its eyes were huge in its long narrow face, a dark vivid gray, and filled with a sort of glowing light.
The red Lasis said nothing, merely gazed at them. It had absurdly long eyelashes. Nicholas knew in that instant that the red Lasis was very vain about its long eyelashes, and he thought, Yet another small curiosity.
He said, holding perfectly still, keeping Rosalind plastered against his side, 'Are you Bifrost?'
The red Lasis bowed his head.
'You are the oldest red Lasis in the Pale?'
Bifrost sang in a beautiful sweet voice,
Yes, I am he. Yes, I am old. I came before time. So it is told.
Not more poetry and had rhymes.
Bifrost said, 'It is not such a bad rhyme. Yes, yes, I can hear your thoughts. You are harsh. Rhymes are difficult. Let us speak then in human talk.'
Nicholas said, 'Sarimund wrote you would protect us from the Tiber. But you were not here when we came into the Pale.'
Bifrost slowly nodded. He chanted this time. 'I am the only remaining red Lasis in the Pale. My mate was killed by a moon storm-' At Nicholas's raised eyebrow, Bifrost said, 'The storm comes occasionally when the three bloodred moons are full. Perhaps every thousand years or so, there is a moon storm and the moons are shoved together. There is a horrible rending noise that brings all out to see what is hap pening. Huge flaming spears of sheered-off moon, glowing red, fall to the ground. That time, unfortunately, one of the flaming spears killed my mate, who was standing beside a sharp-toothed angle tree. I am alone. However, the Tiber don't know this.'
Once in a thousand years? 'When did this happen?' Rosalind asked.
'Perhaps at the last full moon, but I doubt that can be true whenever I think about it carefully. My cousins are black and brown, a dull bunch with no imagination, always complaining, the lot of them. Even the Tiber doesn't like to eat them, much too salty, so it is said. But the Dragons of the Sallas Pond say their meat is beyond sweet. However, the dragons do not eat meat so I wonder how they could know.
'The Tiber still do not realize I am the only red Lasis left in the Pale. They are that stupid.
'I came to see that you were all right, that you survived your tussle with Taranis's son, Clandus, a spoiled little but-tel, that one. You both did very well.'
'What is a buttel?' Rosalind asked.
The red Lasis batted his long eyelashes at her. 'A buttel is a particularly noxious creature that is forever trying to make himself more important than he is. I would kill all the miserable buttel if I were not so depressed.' Bifrost dipped his head down and sighed.
After a few moments of silence, which neither Nicholas nor Rosalind wished to break, he raised his head again and spoke with a bit more vigor. 'Perhaps it was a foolish thing you did, my lord, telling Clandus he wasn't a god, though it is quite true. A Dragon of the Sallas Pond must do great deeds to gain the state of godness.'
Nicholas said, 'Who decides whether or not to make a
Dragon of the Sallas Pond a god? What can possibly be higher than a god?'
Bifrost blinked his very long eyelashes, his head down again so both of them could better see the amazing length and thickness. 'On precious occasions, a golden shell cracks open and a dragon rolls out, all tiny and wet, its wings plastered against its body. It grows quickly, hopefully in both its brain and in its body, and is then offered tasks to perform.'
'Rather like Hercules in earth mythology?' Rosalind asked.
Bifrost said, 'I don't know of any Hercules, all I know is that if the Dragon of the Sallas Pond is successful, he changes-both his status in the Pale and his abilities. He is able to impress his will and wishes sufficiently upon all the wizards and witches who dwell in the fortress of Blood Rock to prevent them from butchering every creature here in the Pale. I will tell you, he once controlled them easily, but now their depravity makes them stronger, more conniving. Now they occasionally try to do him harm though they pretend to worship him, to admire him. They should be thrown into the river and sucked down by the demons who rule the underrealm. My mate once tangled with an underrealm demon and survived.' Bifrost paused a moment, then looked at Nicholas. 'You wonder what creature or being is above a god. There must be something, I suppose, else how do the Dragons of the Sallas Pond know what tasks to perform? Who judges them? I shall contemplate this mystery in those moments when I am not
