The Silver Mage (46 page)

“We have summoned you to ask about the dragon book,” Valandario said. “We know it lies to the north. We have sent a man to find it, but it seems to flee from him.”

“The book belongs to the silver wyrm,” the white spirit said.

“True, but he cannot claim it. He has no hands. Nor can he hold a steady purpose in mind with war so close to us.”

Inside its gleaming pillar the golden line thickened and pulsed.

“Is the man with the burned hands and face your messenger?” the white woman asked.

“He is.”

The female spirit stepped back several paces until she stood up against the pillar. The golden spirit inside pulsed and shrank, twisted and pulsed the more while she stood with her head cocked to one side, as if listening. Eventually she spoke again. “He who has the book has been bound.”

“With chains?” Valandario said.

“With custom alone. A slave, he is, and no longer a man, though he once was whole.”

“I see. Can you free him?”

“We know not, but we shall try. Shall we trust the man with the burned hands?”

Valandario hesitated, glancing Dallandra’s way.

“You may,” Dalla said at last. “To a point. If he makes any move to bind you, flee. Listen not to a word, just flee.”

“So we shall do.”

As the white spirit stepped back into the pillar, the golden line flickered once and disappeared. Slowly her form dissolved into gleams and sparks of colored lights; then she, too, vanished. The pillar shrank back to a circle, the circle to a line, the line to a point—and then nothing. The air returned to mere air.

“It is over,” Valandario called out. “May all spirits bound by this ceremony go free!” She used her foot to scatter some of the charcoal and make a wide break in the ritual circle. “I declare this place a place on earth and naught more.”

“So do we declare,” the three responded. “It is over.”

As they all trooped back to camp, Valandario noticed that Branna and Neb, both of them wide-eyed, their faces flushed with excitement, hurried on ahead. They were talking about the ritual in low voices, leaning toward each other as they walked. When Neb took Branna’s hand and drew her a little closer, Valandario’s sudden stab of envy took her by surprise. She did her best to suppress it and look elsewhere, but reaching her tent came as a relief.

Once she’d eaten, Valandario went to talk with Dallandra further. The ritual had left her tired enough for sleep, but though the sun still hung low over the eastern horizon, the camp had come alive. Children and dogs raced around, yelling and barking. Some of the adults were standing between their tents, talking and laughing. Even though Valandario’s tent stood on the edge of the camp, the noise penetrated the heavy leather walls.

Dallandra’s tent was just as noisy. Val found her fellow dweomerworker nursing the baby, while Sidro sat nearby, ready to take Dari when she was done. Val sat down on a cushion and stifled a yawn. The baby pulled away from the breast just long enough to glance Val’s way, then returned to her meal.
She’s not Loddlaen,
Valandario reminded herself.
She’s someone new now.
Dallandra yawned with a shake of her head.

“I’m tired, too,” Dalla said. “But Dari isn’t.”

“Most like she’ll sleep soon enough,” Sidro said.

Valandario suddenly realized that she’d not included her apprentice in the ritual. “I need to apologize to you,” she told Sidro. “I should have asked you to come along this morning.”

“No need for apologies,” Sidro said, smiling. “I do think me that my studies, they must soon take less of my day. I be pregnant again.”

“Well! Congratulations!” Valandario hoped she sounded sincere. “That’s lovely.”

“Not that I wish to leave the dweomer behind,” Sidro said. “But until the little one be born, my mind, it will be clouded. Bearing children does take my folk that way.”

Once Dari had finished nursing, and Sidro had taken her out of the stuffy tent into the fresh air, Valandario asked Dallandra the question that was nagging at her. “Why did you warn those spirits against Laz?”

“It’s not because of Laz as he is now,” Dallandra said. “It’s because of who he was. Not in his last life, but the one before that. Alastyr treated spirits like so many slaves. I’m as sure as I can be that he’s the one who bound that gold spirit into the black crystal.”

“I see. That would explain why the golden spirit reacted at the mention of the man with the burned hands.” Val considered this briefly. “He treated his apprentices the same way, from what I”ve heard from Ebañy.”

“Yes, I’d agree with that. That’s the way of the dark masters. They break someone down and then put them back together again on their own particular warped pattern.”

Val paused, caught by her memories of Jav, lying dead in their tent.
Was Loddlaen truly to blame?
Her own question startled her. In all the long years since the murder, she’d never considered the possibility that Alastyr might have been the true killer. He’d broken Loddlaen’s will with evil magics, then used him as a weapon.
Would I blame the knife?

“Val?” Dallandra spoke in a hesitant whisper. “Are you thinking about—”

“Of course I am.” Val got up from her cushion. “But you know, I think Loddlaen was bound every bit as tightly and wrongly as that spirit.” She walked to the door of the tent. “Don’t blame yourself any longer, Dalla, not for my sake. I can forgive Loddlaen. As for Laz—well, I’ll have to think this all through before I see him again.”

Valandario ducked under the tent flap and walked out into sunlight. During their conversation the sun had risen and chased the shadows away.

F
or some days Prince Voran’s army, with Laz and Faharn trailing after with the other servants, had been struggling through the broken tablelands. When they finally crested the last ridge, they saw spread out before them the rocky plateau, the heart of the Northlands. Stumps from fresh-cut trees stubbled the gentle fall of the last hill down to the plain. Someone had been cutting timber, but the only structures Laz could see were a cluster of farm buildings, a mile or so away, encircled by a gray line that most likely signified a stone wall. The faint green blush of new grain covered the fields surrounding them. Far off, nearly out of sight, a tuft of smoke rose, perhaps from the fireplace of yet another farmhouse. The late afternoon sun gilded the scene with a serenity that Laz instantly distrusted.

“This does not look promising,” Laz said. “Desolate, even.”

“Just so,” Faharn said. “I’ll wager that the wretched Boars have joined up with the Horsekin by now.”

“And have taken the book with them.” Laz sighed in a flood of gloom.

The army crawled down the last hill, then spread out along a stream at its base to water their horses. Laz noticed that Prince Voran had dismounted. The cadvridoc stood off to one side with Garin and Brel Avro, while Bren knelt on the ground near the prince’s feet. Brel and Voran were arguing, while Garin hovered, apparently trying to get a word in and failing.

“What’s that all about, I wonder?” Faharn said.

Laz found out when Voran’s manservant came running to fetch him. His worst fear—there knelt Bren, but he could find no excuse strong enough to avoid answering the prince’s summons. As he followed the servant, he was calculating a few good lies. Bren glanced up, saw him, and went tense, studying his face. Although the prince never noticed, Brel Avro did, glancing back and forth between Bren and Laz both.

“Ah, there you are,” Voran said. “Tell me, scribe, how well do you know the north country?”

“This particular stretch of it, Your Highness?” Laz said. “Not at all.”

“I was afraid of that,” Brel Avro said.

Voran shot the dwarven warleader a glance that hovered on the edge of anger. “We’ve been having a discussion about how far we should ride,” Voran continued. “The avro here thinks we should turn back, and I—”

“And you are daft enough to leave your supply lines unguarded,” Brel broke in. “And yourself miles from any allies in a country we know naught about.”

“Brel, please!” Garin snapped.

“Please, what?” Brel said. “Hold my tongue and let a lot of good men die for naught?”

The prince and the avro glared at each other, Brel with his hands on his hips, Voran with his arms tightly crossed over his chest, as if he were subduing his sword hand by force of will.

“Er,” Laz said, “I don’t quite understand—”

“Here’s the situation.” Garin stepped forward and took charge. “Bren here tells us that the Boar planned on retreating to the north before founding a new dun. The prince wishes to go after him. The avro thinks the idea is sheer folly.”

“Ambuscades,” Brel muttered. “Ambuscades, starvation, long sieges without reinforcements.”

“I fully intend to send messengers back,” Voran said.

“And how long will it take for help to reach us?” Brel scowled at him. “You—”

“Your Highness, honored avro!” Garin stepped between them then turned to Laz. “We were hoping you could tell us somewhat about the lay of the land.”

“I do know that this plateau stretches for a good long way,” Laz said. “On the far side of it is Horsekin country, where doubtless this renegade clansman of yours has allies.”

“And south of that?” Brel stepped forward. “You’re a loremaster. You must know somewhat.”

“True spoken, Avro Brel,” Laz said. “Suppose we start from my old home, Braemel, which lies in the foothills of the Western Mountains, far far away. The Boars may even be heading there or to Taenbalapan. Now, If you go east from either town, you reach a flat plain, which I suspect runs for hundreds of miles, crossed by rivers. The plain we see before us is doubtless an extension of it.” Laz cleared his throat. He was enjoying playing the loremaster. “To the north is an area we call the Ghostlands, because it’s filled with barrows, the graves of heroes of days gone by. Some say it’s the haunt of evil spirits.”

Brel snorted in disgust.

“Some areas of the plain, those nearer the towns, are heavily forested,” Laz went on. “There are several large rivers, including one named the Galan Targ, which marks the border of the territory the Alshandra priestesses call theirs. But I fear me I can tell you no more than that.”

“I’d think you’d know plenty about the forest.” Bren rose to his feet. “Considering you’re an outlaw and an outcast and used to live in it.”

“Here!” Voran said. “What’s all this?”

“Of course I’m an outcast.” Laz stretched out his maimed hands. “Consider what the priestesses of Alshandra have done to me! Your Highness, you know full well that I refused to bow down before their demoness.”

Bren stared at the hands, then at Laz’s face, and then at the hands again. “You weren’t marked like this when last I saw you,” he said.

“What?” Laz arranged a carefully puzzled expression. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Last summer, when I came to your hidey-hole in the woods.”

Laz gaped at him. “I don’t have the slightest idea of what you mean by that.”

“You tried to kill me,” Bren went on. “But the blessed priestess stopped you, and one of the men of your band gave me a horse and sword.”

“My band?”

“They were holed up in the woods with you.”

“Wait!” Laz mugged surprise again. “Do you mean to tell me you found my brother?”

Bren’s turn for surprise—he took a step back.

“I thought he’d been slain,” Laz continued. “A nasty sort, but my brother nonetheless, him and his thieving ways. Are you telling me you found a man who looks much like me hiding in the forest?”

“I did,” Bren said. “Ye gods, forgive me! This fellow was an outlaw, sure enough.”

“My heart feels torn in half.” Laz managed to squeeze out a few tears. “Your Highness, forgive my weakness!” He wiped the tears away on his sleeve and sniveled. “It gladdens my heart that my brother still lives, but sure enough, he’s a thief and an outlaw, robbing travelers on the roads, a shame and a reproach to my mach-fala, my clan, that is, in your way of speaking.”

“I see.” Voran appeared genuinely sympathetic. “Well, mayhap I shouldn’t admit this, but it’s a pity we don’t have him here. No doubt he knows the territory a fair bit better than any of us do.”

When Laz risked a glance at Brel, the dwarven warleader stuck his hands in his brigga pockets and arranged an utterly bland expression on his face, as if suppressing a grin. Fortunately, no one else seemed to have noticed the gesture.

“Well, one thing I do know,” Voran said. “After the hard push we made to get this far, the men need to rest. Brel Avro, we’ll discuss this further. You may go, good scribe. Doubtless you’re weary and hungry.”

“I am, Your Highness.” Laz made him a sweeping bow. “My thanks.”

The army spread out and made camp. While he ate his meager rations, Laz noticed that the various captains were walking through the area and speaking to their men, appointing sentries and discussing who would stand which watch. As the sun set, the men on watch left the camp and took up posts that ringed the army round.