Dark Lord of Derkholm by Diana Wynne Jones

Author:Diana Wynne Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

SIXTEEN

BLADE WONDERED HOW his father did not scream and cry, too. As Blade rushed across the shale on his way to Shona, everyone around Derk was shouting and the Horselady’s voice was coming out over the top like a descant. She had hold of Beauty by her halter. “And this mare is overtired! Look at her!”

“’M all rhight! ’M fhine!” Beauty was protesting as Blade got to Shona.

Kit got there at the same time, in a spurt of stones. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Shona’s face was in her arms, buried in her hair. Shaking with sobs, she simply held the hand that was clutching the scroll up to Kit. Callette and Don arrived as Kit read out: “‘The President of Bardic College hereby informs ex-student Shona that she has broken our express command not to assist in any way with Pilgrim Parties or Pilgrims. Had the ex-student condescended to attend at our College, she would have learned that all bards are now forbidden to have any dealings with these tours. She is accordingly hereby expelled from our College and forbidden to perform as a bard in any manner henceforth.’”

“I didn’t know!” screamed Shona. “No one said! What shall I do? I don’t have a career any longer, and I can’t live without music!”

Kit was shaking with rage. Feathers and hair stood up in a ridge all down his back. “I’ve a good mind to go after that fellow and pull his head off!”

“That won’t help,” said Callette. “Come and comfort her.”

Kit raked the shale furiously with all ten front talons, but he moved around opposite Callette and settled head to tail with her, enclosing Shona in a warm feathery nest. Shona just lay there between them and cried desolately. Blade had never seen her—or anyone else—so horribly unhappy. It stunned him. He could not think what to do.

“Horses,” Don said to him. “Feed dogs, quick supper, avians in hampers.”

Blade nodded. It was a relief to have things to do.

By the time they were daring the geese into hampers, Derk’s face was hanging in harassed folds, but he had sorted out most of his visitors. Barnabas was sitting sulkily over a mug of coffee, Scales had flown away north to speak to the purple dragon, and Derk had assured the priests, with complete honesty, that he had made no arrangements whatsoever to have a god manifest, even a fake one. He had assured Umru that they would not have battles in his country. He had promised to discuss the whole matter of battles with Titus, King Luther, and the Chief Werewolf tomorrow, and he had agreed to go to Chell and to take a look at the Emir later. But the Horselady was still at his elbow, haranguing him.

“I said yes!” Derk told her loudly on his way over to Shona.

The lady stopped and stared at him.

“You don’t listen, you know,” Derk said. “I said yes when you began. We’ll fight on foot. I’ve been worried about the way the Pilgrims treat horses for years.

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