The Silver Mage (2 page)

“Not daft at all. That’s exactly what I think must have happened. A person with very powerful dweomer made that book.” Dallandra got up, stretching her back as if it pained her. “My apologies, but I truly do have to go now. Your uncle should be here with your breakfast in a moment, but please, feel free to leave this tent. Come out whenever you’re ready. This will be your first day in a Westfolk alar, so everything’s going to seem strange to you, but your other uncle—Ebañy, his name is—will be glad to introduce you around.”

“My thanks.” Berwynna rose and joined her. “Be there any help I may give you?”

“Not needed. I have apprentices.” Dallandra cocked her head to one side to listen. “Ah, here’s Mic now.” She strode over and held the tent flap open.

“My thanks,” Mic said as he ducked inside. He was carrying a basket in one hand and a pottery bowl in the other. “Bread and soft cheese, Wynni.”

Berwynna took the bowl from him. When she glanced around, Dallandra had already gone, slipping out in silence.

D
allandra found Neb and Ranadario at work in the big tent that the alar had allocated to its healers. Ranadario was explaining how to bandage a bad wound on the upper arm of one of the Cerr Cawnen men while Neb listened, his head cocked a little to one side as if he were afraid that her words would evade him. Their patient, a beefy blond fellow with the odd name of Hound, kept his eyes shut tight and panted in pain. The wound had cut deep into the side of his upper arm, missing the largest blood vessels but severing muscles and tendons. Dallandra doubted that he’d ever be able to use the arm properly again.

“Ranadario,” Dallandra said in Deverrian. “Did you give him willow water to drink?”

“I did, Wise One,” Ranadario said. “This cut is healing so slowly, though.”

Hound opened his eyes and stared at her. His breathing turned ragged, and Neb laid a hand on his unwounded shoulder to steady him.

“Not slowly for a child of Aethyr.” Dalla paused for a quick smile to reassure him. “It’s doing as well as we can expect. Don’t you worry, now. It’ll heal up soon.”

Hound returned the smile, then shut his eyes again.

With her apprentices to help her, Dallandra tended the wounds of the two Cerr Cawnen men and did what she hoped was right for the wounds of the others, four of them Horsekin and one a half-blood fellow. Since those who’d sustained the worst cuts in the fight to save the caravan had all died during their journey south, she could be fairly confident that those who’d lived to reach her would recover.

When she left the tent, Neb followed her with his fat-bellied yellow gnome trailing after. For a moment he merely looked up at the sky as if he were expecting rain. The gnome kicked him hard in the nearer shin.

“Dalla,” Neb said, “I owe you an apology.”

The gnome grinned and vanished.

“You do, truly.” She kept her voice gentle. “I wondered when it would come.”

“Pride’s an infection in itself.” He was studying the ground between them. “I should have spoken before this. I never should have tried to ride away like that.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re the only man or woman either to kick like a balky horse during training. It’s a common enough stage in the apprenticeship, especially among the lads.”

Neb winced, his shoulders a little high, as if he expected a blow. “Common, is it?” His voice choked on the words.

“Very, actually.” Dallandra felt genuinely sorry for his humiliation, but he’d earned every moment of it. “I take it you’re no longer so confused. Your decision about becoming a healer who incorporates dweomer into his work is a truly good one.”

At that he looked up again.

“Now, I’m a healer, certainly,” Dallandra continued, “but it’s only a craft for me. You’re hoping to try somewhat new.”

“Hoping is about right. I don’t know if I can or not.”

“No more do I, but I’ll wager you’ll succeed. At this stage you’ve got to learn both crafts down to the last jot.”

“I know that now.” Neb’s voice rang with sincerity. “And I promise you that I’ll gather every scrap of knowledge that I possibly can.”

“Good! That’s all anyone can ask of you. Now we’d both best clean up. I’ve got gore all over my hands, and your tunic is a fearsome sight.”

Dallandra had just finished washing her bloodstained hands in a bucket of water when one of the Cerr Cawnen men walked over, another beefy blond with narrow blue eyes, a common type among the Rhiddaer men, who were descended from the northern tribes of “Old Ones,” as the original inhabitants of the Deverrian lands used to be known. This particular fellow introduced himself as Richt, the caravan master.

“You do have all my thanks, Wise One,” he said, “for the aid you and your people do give me and my men. I would gift you with somewhat of dwarven work. It be a trinket I did trade for in Lin Serr.” From the pocket of his brigga he brought out a leather pouch.

“I don’t need any payment, truly,” Dallandra began, then stopped when he shook a pendant out of the pouch onto his broad palm. “That’s very beautiful.”

“As you are, and I would beg you to take it.”

The pendant hung by a loop from a fine silver chain. Two silver dragons twined around a circle of gems, set in silver. The jeweler had arranged three petal-shaped slices of moonstone and three of turquoise around a central sapphire.

“Are you sure you want to part with this?” Dallandra said.

“I be sure that I wish you to have it.” Richt smiled, a little shyly.

“Then you have my profound thanks.”

When Dallandra held out her hand, he passed the pendant over, then bobbed his head in respect and walked away. The more she studied the pendant, the happier she was that she’d accepted the gift. Rarely did she like jewelry enough to wear any of it, but this particular piece made her think of the moon and its magical tides. A bevy of sprites materialized in the air and hovered close to look at it. She could hear their little cries of delight, a sound much like the rustling of fine silks.

“Who gave you that?” a normal elven voice said.

Dallandra looked up to see Calonderiel watching her with his arms crossed over his chest.

“The caravan master,” she said. “In thanks for tending his wounded men. He told me it’s dwarven work.”

“Oh.” Cal relaxd with a smile. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Thus, it suits you.”

“Shall I put it on?”

“Please do.”

The pendant hung just below Dallandra’s collarbone. As it touched the magical nexus at that spot, she felt emanations.

“There’s dweomer on this piece,” she said to Cal. “I’m not sure what, though. I’ll have to show it to Val later.”

“Maybe you’d better show it to her now. Are you sure it’s safe to wear it?”

“Yes, actually. Cal, you sound so worried.”

“I keep thinking about the spell over Rori.” He paused, glancing away, biting his lower lip. “And how dangerous it’s going to be to lift. I’ve gotten suspicious of everything dweomer, I guess.”

“Reversing the spell may not be dangerous at all. We don’t know that.”

Cal did his best to smile. “If it turns out to be dangerous, then,” he said, “warn me.”

“I will, I promise. I’ve been thinking about what happened to Evandar. He wasn’t incarnate, don’t forget, which meant there was nothing truly solid about him. He could appear to have a body, but at root he was nothing but pure spirit, pure vital force. After he drained himself of most of that power, there was nothing left for him to fall back on, as it were.”

“Ah.” Cal paused, visibly thinking this through. “I do see what you mean. But I’ve heard you talk of the—what did you call that?—the rule of compensation or suchlike.”

“The law of compensation, yes. Any great pouring out of dweomer force is going to have an equal reaction of some kind. The problem is knowing what it will be.” Dallandra smiled briefly. “I may never be able to fly in my own bird form again. That’s my best guess.”

“You’re willing to do that?”

“Flying comes in handy, but it doesn’t mean a great deal to me anymore. I have you, I have our child, and the ground seems like a very pleasant place to be.”

He smiled so softly, so warmly, that she felt as if she’d worked some mighty act of magic.

“I do love you,” he said. “I’m terrified of losing you.”

“Don’t worry, and don’t forget, I’ll have a great deal of help—Val, Grallezar, Branna, and for all I know, the lass on Haen Marn knows enough to take part in whatever the ritual is.”

“That’s right! I tend to forget about them. It’s not like you’ll be fighting this battle by yourself.”

Dallandra smiled and said nothing more. At the very beginning of a ritual she always asked that any harm it might evoke would fall upon her alone, but that Cal didn’t need to know.

“I’m not just worrying for my own sake and for Dari’s,” Cal went on. “If you—” he hesitated briefly, “—went away, what would happen to the changelings?”

“There are other dweomerworkers. Look at Sidro. She’s amazingly patient with those poor little souls, much more than I can be.”

“True.” He suddenly smiled. “Oh, very well, I’m truly worried if I can forget things like that. I’ll do my best to stop, but I make no promises.”

Richt and his gift reminded Dallandra that she had an extremely unpleasant task ahead of her, telling her fellow dweomermaster in Cerr Cawnen about the fate of the caravan. As she went to her tent for privacy, she wondered if Niffa might already know, since Niffa had lost a great-nephew in that attack. The plight of bloodkin had a way of reaching a dweomermaster’s mind. Indeed, as soon as Dallandra contacted her, she could feel Niffa’s grief, as strong as a drench of sudden rain.

“My heart aches for your loss,” Dallandra said.

“My thanks,” Niffa said. “Jahdo’s the one who’s suffering the more, alas. Aethel was always his favorite grandchild.”

Dallandra let a wordless sympathy flood out from her mind. Niffa’s image, floating in a shaft of dusty sunlight, displayed tears in her dark eyes. Her pale silver hair hung disheveled around her face, a sign of mourning.

“The men who’ve survived this long are likely to live,” Dallandra said. “I just tended them and spoke with Richt. They won’t be able to get back on the road for some while, though.”

“My thanks for the telling. With my mind so troubled, it’s been a hard task to focus upon their images and read such things from them.”

“No doubt! Here, I’ll let you go now. I’ll contact you again to let you know how they’re faring.”

Niffa managed a faint smile, then broke the link between them.

Just as Dallandra got up to leave, Sidro brought her the baby to nurse. They sat together, discussing the changeling children, until little Dari fell asleep. Dallandra settled the baby in the leather sling-cradle hanging in the curve of the tent wall. Westfolk infants sleep more or less upright, settled on beds of fresh-pulled grass, rather than in the swaddling bands we Deverry folk wrap our babies in.

“I was just going to talk with Valandario,” Dallandra said. “Do you think you could watch the baby for me?”

“Gladly, Wise One,” Sidro said. “I’ll take her with me to my tent, if that pleases you.”

“It does, and my thanks. Ah, here’s Val now! I thought she might have heard me thinking about her.”

Val had, indeed. After Sidro left them, they spoke in Elvish. Valandario exclaimed over the pendant when Dallandra handed it to her, rubbed it between her fingers, and pronounced the dweomer upon it safe enough to wear.

“Someone’s turned it into a talisman to attract good health, is all.” Val handed it back. “Huh, and the dwarves claim they don’t believe in dweomer!”

“Probably one of the women did the enchanting.”

“I suppose so.” Valandario settled herself on a leather cushion. “I’ve been thinking about the dragon book, and I don’t understand how Evandar could have written it. He couldn’t read and write, could he?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“What? The subject never came up in all those hundreds of years?”

“There’s something you don’t understand. Hundreds of years passed in this world, yes. For me it was only a couple of long summers with barely a winter in between. That first time when I went to Evandar’s country, I thought I’d spent perhaps a fortnight away.”

Valandario pursed her lips as if she were clamping them shut.

“Don’t you believe me?” Dallandra went on.

“Of course I do.” Val stayed silent for a moment more, then let the words burst out. “But how could you love a man who’d trick you that way? He trapped you in his little world, and by the Star Goddesses themselves, the grief he caused in this one!”

“Tricked me?” Dallandra found that words had deserted her. She sat down opposite Val, who apparently mistook her silence.

“I’m sorry,” Val said. “A thousand apologies.”

“No, no, no need.” Dallandra managed to find a few words. “I’d never—I don’t think I ever thought of it—of him—that way before.”