The Silver Mage Read online

  “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.”

  “As what? A trickster? He had to be the consummate trickster, the absolute king of them all, from everything I know about him. This book—it’s another of his tricks, isn’t it? Like the rose ring and the black crystal. I hope it’s the last of the bad lot.”

  “Well, so do I.”

  The silence hung there, icy in the pale silver light. Abruptly, Val flung one hand in the air. The dweomer light above them changed to a warmer gold.

  “About the book,” Val said. “So Evandar could have written it.”

  “Yes, perhaps he might have.” Dallandra let out her breath in a long sigh. “Though it seems like it would have taken a long time, just from its size, I mean, and he had so little patience.”

  Valandario quirked an eyebrow. Dallandra kept silent.

  “What about the archives in the Southern Isles?” Val went on. “Could it be a copy of something there?”

  “I had hopes that way, but no.” Dallandra said. “Meranaldar was a librarian there, you know, and he knew every single volume that survived the Great Burning. Before he left last autumn, I asked him about the book that Ebañy saw in the crystal. He didn’t recognize it, and yes, he remembered all the covers of the books, too.”

  “He would.” Valandario grinned at her. “But boring or not, he was a useful sort of man to know. You were already wondering, last summer, if the book contained dragon lore, too.”

  “So I was. He told me that the only dragon lore they had was the occasional comment or passage in books about other things.”

  “Didn’t you say that Jill had books from the Southern Isles?”

  “Yes, and when she died, Evandar reclaimed them. Meranaldar told me that he brought them back to the archive. I’ve got her other books, and the only dragon lore in them is what she wrote in the margins.”

  “So much for that, then. Now, what about Laz’s book, his copy of the Pseudo-Iamblichos Scroll? It has such a similar cover. Sidro told me that he bought it already bound but with blank pages up at Taenbalapan. Do you suppose the dragon book came from there, too?”

  “A very good point.” Dallandra rose and began to pace back and forth in the tent. “I wonder if Evandar saw the other one there and acquired it somehow.”

  “Stole it, you mean.” Valandario got up and joined her.

  Dallandra swirled around to face her and set her hands on her hips. Val’s expression revealed only a studied neutrality. She’s right, Dallandra thought. He really was an awful thief. She wasn’t quite ready to admit it aloud.

  “Anyway, to return to the book.” Val’s expression changed to narrow-eyed disgust. “I suppose we’d better talk with Laz Moj about it.”

  “You suppose? Val, you look like you just bit into turned meat.”

  “He’s someone else I have to forgive.” Valandario forced out a brittle little smile. “After Jav’s murder, Aderyn and Nevyn spent a long time trying to piece together what had happened. A very long time, truly. Things didn’t fall into place till after the war where Loddlaen died.”

  I was still gone then, Dallandra thought. The guilt bit deep. If she’d not gone off with Evandar, how different things might have been!

  “It wasn’t till then,” Val continued, “that they realized Alastyr lay behind the murder and the war both.”

  “Rori told me that Laz was once Alastyr.”

  “Exactly, and I actually saw him when he was only a lad, a nasty little bit of work named Tirro. He grew up to be a merchant, and it was his ship that carried—” She paused briefly. “—the crystal away, which is why no one could scry for it. They would have been out on the open sea by the time I tried to find them.”

  She means the crystal and Loddlaen, Dallandra thought. Aloud, she said, “I’ll go speak with Laz, but there’s no reason you need to come along.”

  “Thank you. I was hoping you’d say that.” She hesitated again then glanced away as if she’d decided not to say some painful thing.

  “What is it, Val? You might as well say it.”

  “Why couldn’t Evandar have just told you about the book on Haen Marn?” Val’s words floated on a bitter tide. “Why all this secrecy and glittering crystals and the like? If that wretched crystal hadn’t existed, Loddlaen wouldn’t have coveted it. Yes, I know that sounds stupid, but he wanted it enough to kill for it. Why all the—” She stopped, breathing hard. “My apologies.”

  Dallandra could think of a dozen reasons why, but faced with Val’s undying grief, she found them shallow, stupid, pointless—rationalizations, not reasons. She sighed and said the simple truth, “I don’t know why, Val. I truly don’t.�
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  “Oh.” Val paused for a long cold moment. “Yes, I suppose you don’t.” She got up and left the tent.

  Dallandra followed her, but she left Val her privacy, and instead went looking for Grallezar. The royal alar spread out along a sizable stream, tents on one bank, horse herds and sheep flocks on the other. Against the rich green of the grass, the freshly painted designs on the tents gleamed in the summer sun as if the dull leather had been beaded and bejeweled. Children and puppies chased each other among the tents, followed by swarms of Wildfolk, crystalline sprites in the air, warty gray-and-green gnomes on the ground. Now and then this crazed parade ran into an adult who, nearly toppled, yelled imprecations upon them all as they raced on past.

  Dallandra found her fellow dweomermaster standing on the edge of the camp well away from the children’s chaos. She was talking with a Gel da’Thae man who wore a filthy gray shirt and trousers, the remnants of a regimental uniform, Dallandra assumed. Indeed, Grallezar introduced him as Drav, an officer in one of Braemel’s old cavalry troops.

  “He does want to take his men away from Laz and join us,” Grallezar said. “I did tell him that only the prince could decide such a thing.”

  “That’s very true,” Dallandra said. “How many men are there?”

  “But four, and one of them wounded. Two others did die in the rescuing of that caravan.”

  “I can’t see, then, why Dar wouldn’t agree. By all means, take Drav to him. I think Cal’s over there, too. Could you ask Drav if Laz is going to come tell us about that crystal?”

  The two Gel da’Thae conferred briefly. Drav rolled his dark eyes and swung one hand through the air, a gesture that Grallezar had often used when dismissing someone as a fool.

  “He tells me,” Grallezar said in her dialect of Deverrian, “that Laz be in a fair foul mood over Sidro. He does walk around swearing and kicking at things that be in his way. So he knows not what Laz might or might not do.”

  “I see. Thank him for the information, will you? Then we can go talk with Dar.”

  By then the royal alar had grown used to traveling with individuals of the race they’d always called Meradan, demons, now that they knew that these “demons” were real flesh and blood, not some faceless horde but individuals who were capable of changing their minds and their allegiances. The prince was glad enough to have more highly trained warriors in his warband, even if these were Gel da’Thae.

  “Besides,” Dar told Dallandra in Elvish, “they understand the Horsekin, and they despise them even more than we do.” He rubbed his hands together. “Drav has some solid information about their forces.”

  Drav returned to his former camp to collect his men, but not long after he sent a messenger. Grallezar brought him and his news to Dallandra: Laz and those of his men who were unwounded were striking camp and planning on riding out.

  “What?” Dalla snapped. “He’s leaving his wounded behind?”

  The messenger spoke; Grallezar translated, telling her that the wounded men had asked to change their loyalties and stay with the alar. They would ride under Drav’s orders, or so they’d sworn on the names of the old Gel da’Thae gods.

  “Good riddance to the rest of them,” Grallezar said, “or truly, it would be good riddance if we needed not to know what Laz knows.”

  “But we do need to,” Dalla said. “I’ll go talk with him.”

  “Might that not be dangerous?”

  “It might, but I doubt it, not with his band so badly outnumbered, and Drav and his men right there.” Dallandra considered briefly. “On the other hand, you might collect a few archers and come—oh, say, about halfway to his camp.”

  Grallezar grinned with a flash of needle-sharp teeth.

  In the midst of a welter of half-struck tents and bedrolls, Laz’s remaining men hurried back and forth, saddling horses and gathering gear. Dallandra found Laz standing by his saddled and bridled horse, a stocky chestnut that bore a Gel da’Thae cavalry brand. The bright sun picked out the pink scars on his face and those cutting into his short brown hair. He’s got a face like a knife edge, Dallandra thought, all sharp angles and bone and that beaky nose. He looks half-starved, too. His smile did nothing to soften the impression.

  “Welcome,” Laz called out. He spoke surprisingly good Deverrian. “Or perhaps I should say farewell. Alas, fair lady, I feel the need to take leave of you and yours, before the rest of my men decide they’d rather join you than stay with me.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” Dallandra said. “It’s too bad, though. I was going to offer to trade you dweomer lore in return for some information.”

  “Oh?” Laz glanced away, entirely too casually. “What kind of lore?”

  “What are you most interested in?”

  “At the moment, the burning questions in my mind concern those wretched crystals.” He looked at her again. “Who, by the way, was Evandar?”

  “I can tell you a great deal about Evandar. The black crystal, it’s largely a mystery to me, though I do know somewhat that might interest you.” She paused to glance around them, saw some of his men standing nearby, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You owned it in a former life. In fact, I know somewhat about two of your former lives.” She raised her voice to a normal level. “It won’t make pleasant hearing, though, so no doubt you’re wise to leave now.”

  Laz’s eyes went wide, and he whistled under his breath. He gaped at her, as well and truly hooked as a caught trout, gaping at the end of a fisherman’s line. His horse stamped and tossed its head at the sudden slacking of its reins. At last Laz sighed and turned away to speak to his men in the Gel da’Thae language. Some of them shrugged, some of them raised eyebrows, others glanced skyward in disgust, but they all stopped work on striking the camp and began, instead, to restore it.

  “We need to find a place to talk,” Laz said to Dallandra. “We can meet between the camps.”

  “Very well. You’re welcome in our camp, for that matter. The Westfolk will never eavesdrop on a Wise One.”

  “I will not set foot over there.” Laz’s voice turned hard. “I see no reason to let Pir gloat over me.”

  “Oh, come now, you know Pir better than I do! Would he truly gloat?”

  “I never thought he’d steal my woman, either.” Laz hesitated, then shrugged. “That’s unfair of me. No one stole her. She’s not a horse.” Laz seemed to be choking back either tears or anger, but he arranged a brittle smile.

  He’s trying, Dallandra thought. Desperately trying to be fair, to do the right thing. She regretted her slip, mentioning that she had information about two of his past lives. Discussing Lord Tren was doubtless safe enough, but Alastyr? She found herself loathe to speak of dark dweomer. What if it awakened Laz’s memories and, worse yet, his desire to use it? Worst of all, what if he already remembered and was hoping to get more information? Sidro had often warned her that Laz lied as cheerfully as most men jest.

  “Well, it was her right to choose.” His voice sounded as tight as a drawn bowstring. “Alas. Let me hand my horse over to Faharn, and then we shall go to neutral ground and talk.” Laz shaded his eyes and looked in the direction of Grallezar and the archers. “Ah, I see you prudently stationed a few guards out there.”

  “I’ll dismiss them.”

  He grinned again, bowed, and led his horse away.

  Laz handed his horse over to Faharn, then gave his apprentice a few quick instructions about setting up the camp. By the time he returned to Dallandra, the archers had gone back to the Westfolk tents. Dalla had picked out a spot midway between their two camps and trampled down the grass in a small circle. When they sat down, he felt oddly private despite the blue sky above them, as if they sat in a tiny chamber curtained all round with fine green lace.

  “Would you tell me what you know about the dragon book?” Dallandra began.

  “The dragon book?” Laz said. “Ah, there was a dragon on the cover, indeed. I held it in my hands and turned the pages, but I can’t truly rea
d your beautiful language, so I have no idea of what was written in it.”

  “Berwynna told me that you thought the text had somewhat to do with dragons.”

  “Somewhat. For one thing, there was the image on the cover.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that. You have a book that’s decorated with the reverse colors but the same outline of a dragon. Did you buy that in a marketplace?”

  “I didn’t. My sisters had it made specially for me as a coming-of-age present. I saved it for years until I had somewhat important to write in it. You look surprised.”

  “I am. I suppose Evandar might have scried it somehow. He did see bits and pieces of future events, and if he saw you and the book, he might well have decided to make one much like it.”

  “I truly want to learn more about this fellow.”

  “I’ll tell you, fear not! But about the book—”

  “Well, beyond the cover, I could pick out a word here and there, and drahkonen was one of them.” Laz paused to summon his memories. He could see the pages of the book clearly in his mind. “Odd, now that I think of it! That word seemed to recur in the same place on every page. Indeed, about halfway down and to the right of the line, and on every page that I saw.”

  “How very strange!”

  Laz nodded his agreement. “Did Wynni tell you about the spirits?”

  “She mentioned that you’d said some were attached to the book, but no more than that. She apparently can’t see the Wildfolk.”

  “She can’t, truly, but I did. They were Spirits of Aethyr. They appeared once as flames, icy white with strangely colored tips. Another time I saw them as a lozenge, floating just over the book. They can move it, by the by, and they must have some way of influencing people’s minds. Somehow they tricked Wynni into taking it from the island.”

  “That’s fascinating! I can see Evandar’s hand in this, all right.”

  “Have you ever heard of anything like this?”