COPYRIGHT

      Published by Harper Voyager an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2008

      Copyright © Katharine Kerr 2008

      Katharine Kerr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

      Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

      Cover illustration by Andrew Davis

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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      Source ISBN: 9780007268924

      Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2014 ISBN: 9780007283378

      Version: 2020-03-02

DEDICATION

       For Elizabeth Pomada

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

Prologue: In a Far Country

Part I: The Westlands Spring, 1160

       Part II: The Northlands Spring, 1160

       Part III: The Northlands Summer, 1160

       Keep Reading

       Glossary

       About the Author

       Other Books By

       About the Publisher

AUTHOR’S NOTE

      Despite what you may have heard or read elsewhere, The Shadow Isle is not the last book in the Deverry sequence. It is, however, the beginning of the end, Part I of the last Deverry book, as it were. The true end will be published soon as The Silver Mage, also from HarperCollins.

PROLOGUE

       In a Far Country

      You say that the three Mothers of All Roads run tangled beyond your power to map them. Why then would you ask to travel the seven Rivers of Time? Their braiding lies beyond even the understanding of the Great Ones, so be ye warned and stay safely upon their banks.

       The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

      Laz woke to darkness and noise. Gongs clanged, men shouted. Not one word made sense to him, and no more did the sound of water lapping and splashing. He could smell nothing but water. Pain – his hands burned, but the rest of him felt cold, soaked through, he realized suddenly, sopping wet. How his hands could burn when he was sopping wet lay beyond him. The gongs came closer, louder. Waves lifted him and splashed him back down. Floating, he thought. I’m floating on water.

      The shouting came from right over his head. Hands suddenly grabbed him, hauled, lifted him into the air while the shouting and the gongs clamoured all around. Hands laid him down again on something hard that rocked from side to side. The shouting stopped, but the gongs clanged on and on. Through the sound of gongs he heard a dark voice speaking. Not one word of it!

      The voice tried yet another incomprehensible language, then a third. ‘Here, lad, speak you this tongue?’

      Lijik Ganda, he thought. Just my luck. ‘I do,’ Laz said aloud. ‘A bit, anyway.’

      ‘Splendid! Who are you?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Laz put panic into his voice. ‘I don’t remember. Where are we? Why is it so dark?’

      ‘It’s not dark, lad. There’s a lantern shining right into your face.’

      ‘I’m blind? I don’t remember being blind.’

      Voices murmured in one of the languages he couldn’t understand. Someone patted his shoulder as if trying to comfort him. The rocking continued, the splashing and the gongs.

      ‘Here!’ Laz said. ‘Are we on a boat?’

      ‘We are, and heading for the island. Just rest, lad. The ladies of the isle know a fair bit about healing. It may be that they can do somewhat about your eyes, I don’t know. I’d wager high that they can heal your hands at the very least.’

      ‘They do pain me.’

      ‘No doubt! Black as pitch, they are. You just rest. We’re coming up to the pier.’

      ‘My