Free Mindbond by Nancy Springer Page B

their knees, people calling, running down from the lodges on the headland above, slithering down rocks slippery with spray and moss—
    â€œIt is the king!”
    â€œKorridun! What has happened to your face?”
    â€œDan! It is Dannoc!”
    Someone caught at my hand, and then I was down as well and part of a mighty hugging, guardsmen and young women, Lumai and Lomasi and Winewa, the one I had chiefly loved for a time. Winewa bearing a tiny babe! I stared, for it seemed to me that the sparse hair on the little one’s shell-pink head was nearly as light as mine.
    â€œYou’ve given us a wee girl to break hearts when she’s older, Dannoc,” Lomasi said, and there were smiles everywhere.
    And questions asked of Kor, and sorrow. Tohr, dead. Three other guardsmen who had gone with us, all dead. Birc—gone.… A few men stood woodenly, hearing tidings of a son or a brother. Women lifted their faces skyward and keened in formal lament. Two mothers, a pledgemate, a sister wailed in more heartfelt sorrow. Others stood somber. All clamor quieted except the uproar of the heartless sea.
    â€œIstas?” Kor questioned that silence.
    â€œAbove!” Istas was too old to manage the rocks, or too dignified to tumble about on them. Clamor broke out again.
    â€œCome, our king, she will be wild with waiting for you.”
    â€œYou should have seen her when the shout went up. She dropped the bowl she was holding and broke it—”
    â€œâ€”splattered chowder everywhere—”
    â€œâ€˜Slime of Mahela!’ she yelled!”
    Istas’s favorite curse. Except for those who mourned, everyone laughed, chattering and climbing up the steep path.
    â€œShe’s well, then,” Kor said gladly.
    â€œWell! Of course she’s well. She’s as strong as Dannoc.”
    More laughter. She, the hunched old woman whose head reached only to my chest. Her strength had once been sufficient to break my foot. She had fully intended to kill me in a most unpleasant way, for I had killed her brother, who had never done any dishonor to me.… Bad days gone by, done with. I had taught her the meaning of mercy, Kor said.
    â€œThat one,” a man added, “she will never die.”
    At the top she stood awaiting us, a strong old shrew with a deeply lined face and a hump on her back. Knowing her as I did, I expected a blunt comment as we came before her. Istas was honest, though not always honest enough to show her own love and joy. She wore a scowl of irritation like a mask. But the mask shattered when she caught sight of Korridun. Amazement and awe smoothed her face so that for a moment I glimpsed the young maiden she once had been.
    â€œBut you have grown!” she exclaimed, gazing up at him, throwing her head back as far as her bent body would allow her.
    â€œMahela’s blood, Istas, I was grown before I went!” He embraced her, and she returned the embrace, but she was not to be put off.
    â€œYou have grown!” she insisted. “Not just in body, though there is that, too—you are nearly as tall as Dannoc!” She turned to peer at me accusingly, more herself now, which was as well, for seeing her as other than an old scold had unsettled me. “Something has happened, and don’t you two try to tell me otherwise.” Her look strayed to the sword that hung by his side, and she stiffened. “Is that one of those great, strange knives?”
    â€œYes. Quite effective against Cragsmen.”
    She glanced at his bruised temple and back at the sword. “Where did you get it?”
    â€œOut of a tarn,” he said, and she scowled, thinking he was befooling her. But the frown faded into perplexity.
    â€œRad, you look so much—stronger. What has done it?”
    â€œMountain air,” he told her, and she glared now in earnest.
    â€œRad Korridun, you young scamp, tell me truly!”
    â€œTruly, then, Istas, there is too much to