The Silver Mage

by Katharine Kerr

  “Because you were going to kill him. There’s nothing like cold terror to fix a face in a man’s memory.”

  “Oh.” Laz considered this. “You have a very good point. Very well, if Bren’s still with the Boars, then indeed, he could spoil our ruse entirely too easily.”

  “I’m glad you can see that.”

  “I may be reckless, but I’m not stupid. Wait! The book has guardian spirits attached to it. I wonder if I can make some sort of contact with them.”

  “Now there’s an idea! You told me they could move the thing.”

  “Not far, probably. But there’s that slave, and I think we can assume he’d be willing to entertain thoughts of escaping his masters. If the spirits could influence him—”

  “Assuming we can get close enough to this wretched dun to do anything before the warlords find us there. Our heads could end up nailed to the wall.”

  “You’re as full of comfort as a fire on a hot night, aren’t you?” Laz gave him a sour look. “But I’ve got to admit that you’re right about the risk.”

  “Why is this cursed book so important to you, anyway?”

  “A number of reasons. First off, having the silver wyrm back in human form would be a great relief. He’ll probably still be an ill-tempered berserker, but he’ll be a great deal smaller.”

  Faharn laughed in agreement.

  “And then there’s the matter of Sidro,” Laz went on. “Wouldn’t she be impressed if I rescued the thing? It would make me appear far more powerful than Pir.”

  Faharn’s smile disappeared, buried under a look that revealed no feeling at all.

  “I know you’ve never liked her,” Laz said.

  “Why would you want her back?” Faharn blurted this out. “She betrayed you with a man you counted as a friend.”

  Laz wanted to make a jest, could think of none, and finally sighed with a melodramatic shrug. “Once again you’ve made a good point,” Laz said. “But I don’t care to discuss it.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wondered why you wanted the book, is all.”

  “Oh, don’t cringe!”

  Faharn winced.Laz considered saying more then got up instead. Faharn stayed where he was, looking up at him as if waiting for the conversation to continue. With another shrug, Laz turned and strode off. Faharn never followed.

  Laz walked to the edge of the beaten-down area of grass that marked where his full camp had once stood. He shoved his hands into his brigga pockets and lingered, looking west at the elven tents. The various comings and goings had left a path of flattened grass between the two camps. He could walk across it, he realized, and ask to speak with Sidro. There, surrounded by safety, in the midst of her new people, she might well agree to a talk.

  But what could he say, with Gel da’Thae speakers like Exalted Mother Grallezar nearby to eavesdrop? Or do—he could hardly attempt to ensorcell her again with Dallandra and other dweomerworkers so close to hand. Not that I would, he reminded himself. Of course not. I want her back of her own free will. He was lying to himself, he realized, just as he’d so often lied to Sidro about so many things. He found himself remembering young Neb’s scorn over the false name he’d used in Trev Hael.

  “I don’t know who I am anymore,” he said aloud. “That’s what Haen Marn did to me.”

  Or perhaps he’d never really known who he was. Perhaps that was the heart of the matter. Perhaps.

  Laz stood there for a long while that morning and listened to his thoughts bending this way and that, like the tall grass when a gusty wind blows, announcing a coming storm. Only much later did it occur to him to wonder how he knew that Rhodry Maelwaedd had been a berserker.

  The man with the beast on his cheek had saved the book from the ugly men who stank of blood. The spirits had puzzled out that much, because at times the beast-marked man would take the book out of the leather bag. He would turn the pages, run his fingers over the letters, and weep before putting it back into the bag and hiding it under a straw mattress. Because he’d saved the book, the spirits decided to reward him. With all the loose matter in the hay-loft, where he slept, they could easily create blank pages in case he wished to write upon them. They made the entire astral construct larger, too, until it would no longer fit into the bag, simply because they hated the presence of leather. The man with the beast on his cheek seemed both pleased and frightened by the changes.

  His fear puzzled them. They’d done nothing extraordinary, but they reversed the changes because he was afraid. If only Evandar would come—they told each other this often—he would explain everything. Evandar or one of their lords, someone who could speak to the beast-marked man—they could only wait.

  “It’s time we left Twenty Streams,” Cal said. “The sheep have torn up too much of the grass as it is.”

  “So I see,” Dallandra said. “But what about Rori?”

  Cal grinned at her. “I think he’ll be able to spot which way we’ve gone. He flies high.”

  “Of course! Silly of me.”

  They had left the camp to give Dari some fresher air and to enjoy the peaceful quiet. Cal was carrying the child in a leather sling against his chest. At moments, she turned her head and looked around her before resting against her father and drowsing.

  “Which way does Dar want to go?” Dallandra said.

  “West, I suppose. We generally do go west this time of year.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  Cal shrugged. He looked doubtful as well, his eyes narrowing as he stared off toward the west, where a summer haze lingered in the lowering sun.

  “It’s because of the Horsekin,” he said at last. “I keep wondering if they’re planning border raids out our way. They’d be more likely to attack in the west, away from our allies.”

  “I can keep a watch by scrying.”

  “How? You’ve probably never seen any of these raiders, if there are any, that is.”

  “It won’t matter. I’ll scry for the terrain. If there’s a raiding party coming our way, the grass itself will show me where they are. I won’t be able to see them clearly, no, or pick out details, but I’ll be able to get a general impression of riders and horses. It’ll be vague, but—”

  “It’ll be enough.” Cal finished the sentence for her and grinned. “Good. Do that. Oh, and thank you.”

  That night, when Dallandra scried, she sent her mind out in a circle around the camp. While west may have been the likely direction for a raid, the Horsekin might well be leaving the northern tablelands by some eastern route. The forested tablelands themselves, where she’d never been, would remain closed to her scrying, a vast reddish mass of vegetable auras and dead rocks. The grasslands that abutted the maze of cliffs and ravines, however, appeared clearly to her questing mind.

  Off to the east, perhaps some twenty miles distant, she saw a brilliant twist of red and gold, the mark of a campfire, and the muddled auras of a few horses and mules, standing heads down and resting in the tall grass. At the fire she could pick out four men, that is, she saw three unmistakably human auras and one actual person seen clear and whole. She recognized him as one of Prince Voran’s men who’d been wounded in the fighting of the summer before. While she couldn’t remember much about him, she’d paid him enough attention to fix him in the deeper levels of her mind. He and his three companions were eating, laughing now and then as they talked among themselves.

  “Messengers, they must be,” Dalla told Cal. “And they must be looking for Dar.”

  “There’s nothing else out here for them to look for,” Cal said with a grin. “No doubt they can follow our trail through the grass, but I’ll have Dar turn the alar back toward the east. We can meet up with them first and head west later.”

  Sure enough, as the royal alar made its slow way back in the direction of Deverry, four riders appeared on the horizon. Once they rode closer, Dallandra could pick out Voran’s wyvern blazon on the shields slung from their saddle peaks. With a shout and a wave, the four spurred th
eir horses to a trot. Calonderiel and four of his archers rode out to greet them and escort them and their messages back to Daralanteriel.

  Later that afternoon, while the royal alar was making camp, Dallandra discussed the letters with Grallezar in their private language.

  “Voran’s in a town in western Cerrgonney,” Dallandra said. “He’s met up with Envoy Garin and his retinue, and Garin had a real prize to give him—messages from the Horsekin to the Boars. A dwarven patrol intercepted them.”

  “Excellent!” Grallezar paused for a smile full of fangs. “What did they say?”

  “There he has a difficulty. No one in his retinue or Garin’s can read the Horsekin tongue. Voran was wondering if you might be willing to return with the messengers and join the conference.”

  “Huh! Act as his scribe, you mean. I think not.”

  “I rather thought you wouldn’t. He can be awfully high-handed.”

  They shared a grim smile.

  “What about one of your men?” Dallandra went on.

  “None of my own men ken reading. Our fighting men are much like the Lijik warriors, willing to leave such things to their servants and the womenfolk.” Grallezar considered, sucking a fang. “Drav, now. Drav was an officer, and he no doubt can puzzle out the words, whether or not you’d call it reading. But he doesn’t know the Lijik tongue, so he’d not be of much use to the prince. Besides, I want him here. The others obey him, and those men of Laz’s who came over—they need a man like Drav above them.”

  “Laz! What about Laz?

  “Now that’s a splendid idea. I don’t much like him, but the gods all know he’s a learned man and a scholar.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  “I can trust him the better the farther away he is. Sidro will doubtless be glad to see his horse’s rump as he rides away, too.”

  “No doubt. Do you think Voran will accept him?”

  “If I write a letter to recommend him, he will. I won’t even have to lie. Laz can read and write, and he’s a man who understands fine words and courtly manners. Whether he chooses to use the manners is another matter entirely, but that’s not our concern.”

  “He’s a fistful of arrows short of a full quiver, if you ask me. I hope he doesn’t do anything rash in the prince’s presence.”

  Grallezar paused to look across the open grasslands in the direction of Laz’s camp. “I met his mother once or twice. She was enough to drive any son mad, always pushing, always scheming for her mach-fala no matter whose hopes she trampled on. Her First Daughter, she was another such, too, and she wielded her position over Laz like a whip, or so our Sidro tells me.”

  “That would drive any man a little mad. Well, I’ll go talk with him.”

  “I wonder what he’ll say?”

  “No, probably.” Dalla paused for a smile. “I’ll have to think up a few good arguments.”

  Dallandra doubted Laz’s willingness to leave on such an errand simply because he’d be riding off with men he didn’t know to join up with a prince of the country he’d always considered his enemy. Much to her surprise, however, and before she brought out her first argument, Laz agreed.

  “That gladdens my heart,” she said. “You look positively eager to go.”

  “Joining Voran will get me away from Sidro,” Laz glanced away, his eyes dark. “That’ll be better all round.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true.”

  “And then there’s the dragon book,” Laz went on. “Neb tells me that Voran’s going to invest the Boar dun. If I go with him, I may be able to coax those Spirits of Aethyr into bringing it to me.”

  “I’d not thought of that. My thanks, Laz. That’s an admirable thing to do.”

  “I shall endeavor to bring the book back to you and lay it at your feet.” Laz smiled at her in a way that struck her as entirely too warm.

  “That won’t be necessary, truly.” Dallandra felt like taking a step back, but she feared insulting a man who was, after all, offering to do her an enormous favor. “The best thing would be to take it back to Haen Marn. Well, assuming you can even get the wretched thing.”

  “Why Haen Marn?”

  “It strikes me as the ideal place to perform whatever this ritual is, if I can work the dweomer at all.”

  “And without, I hope, it killing you.”

  “I hope that, too.” Dallandra paused for a wry smile. “If somewhat does go wrong, then maybe you and Marnmara can set it right again, with the power of the island behind you.”

  “Very well, then. No doubt the Mountain Folk will help me get there, since I’ll be doing a bit of work for them.”

  “They pay their debts, truly.” She patted him on the arm, a gesture such as she’d use to soothe a nervous horse. “And may luck ride with you.”

  With a little wave, Dallandra turned and hurried away. The prince will be glad to hear this, she thought. And I’ll be glad to have Laz gone.

  Laz turned away rather than watch Dallandra leave. Had there been anything near him to kick but grass, he would have sent it flying. Ye gods! Here I am, riding all over the wretched Northlands to do the bidding of another woman who doesn’t want me! Sidro, on the other hand—he calmed himself with a couple of deep breaths. If he returned the dragon book to Dallandra, wouldn’t Sidro find that impressive? Perhaps, assuming she’d be at Haen Marn to see his triumph, which was not, he told himself, very likely.

  But a sudden thought soothed his mood. If he got the book, why should he just hand it over? He could bargain with it, use it as a lever to pry Sidro out of the elven camp. He could picture himself triumphant, knew exactly what he’d say: Send Sidro over here, and I’ll give her the book.

  In a private talk with Sidro, somewhere away from all the others, he could use every weapon he possessed in the battle to get her back. If, of course, he could get the book in the first place. And if she happened to go to Haen Marn with Dallandra for the working. With a long sigh for the injustice of everything, he returned to his tent to tell Faharn that they’d be leaving on the morrow.

  “Assuming you want to leave with me, that is,” Laz said. “You can stay with the Westfolk if you want. There’s no use in both of us riding off on what most likely will turn out to be a fool’s errand. Besides, it could turn dangerous. Wars often do.”

  “Oh, I’ll stick with you,” Faharn said. “The Westfolk—all that noise and all those children and dogs running around—I don’t know why, but they put me on edge.”

  “Very well, then, but you’ve been warned.” Laz was only making a jest, but his words made a ripple of cold run down his back. An omen? He doubted it, since they’d be joining a large army and as mere translators would stay behind the lines during any sort of fighting. Faharn merely smiled, unalarmed.

  They would travel back with the messengers, four solid Deverry men all wearing tabards embroidered with Prince Voran’s wyvern. Rhidderc, their leader, a dark-haired fellow with a scar running across one cheek, looked Laz over with a cold eye.

  “A scribe, are you?” he said.

  “I am,” Laz said, “and a bit more than that, considering I can read and write in three languages.”

  Rhidderc made a snorting noise that might have meant anything. He jerked a thumb in Faharn’s direction. “Who’s this?”

  “My apprentice.”

  “And just why are you two willing to help your enemies? He’s a full-blood Horsekin by the look of him.”

  “He’s Gel da’Thae, not Horsekin. The Alshandra people are my enemies, too.” Laz held out his maimed hands. “Look what they did to me, and all because I refused to worship their false goddess.”

  Rhidderc’s suspicion disappeared. He whistled under his breath. “Must not have been a pleasant afternoon’s work.”

  “Most unpleasant.” Laz arranged a thin, cold smile. “And healing them was almost worse. The herbwoman had to keep cracking open the burns so the fingers wouldn’t fuse completely. She could only save a couple as it was.”

  “You have my
sympathy.” Rhidderc winced sharply. “Hurts to think about, like. Well and good, then, lad. My apologies for not trusting you.”

  “It’s most understandable. Don’t let it trouble your heart. By the by, where exactly are we going? Is the prince still in Cerrgonney?”

  “He was when we left, but we’re to meet him elsewhere. There’s an attainted dun that he’s handing over to the Mountain Folk. It’s north of Cengarn. Know where that is?”

  “I do. Huh. The dun must be near Lin Serr, then.”

  “A fair bit south of it, if you mean the Mountain Folk’s town, but in that general direction. Now, get yourself ready to ride. We need to get back on the road.”

  They were on the verge of leaving when Neb brought Rhidderc messages in silver tubes from Prince Daralanteriel and Exalted Mother Grallezar. A Westfolk archer followed, leading a packhorse, laden with supplies for the journey, including a set of inks and pabrus in case Laz needed to act the scribe as well as translator. Faharn took the horse from the archer and led it away. Neb waited till he’d gotten out of earshot before he spoke.

  “The inks and such are from Salamander,” Neb said.

  “Then thank him most heartily for me, will you?” Laz said.

  “I will. And I owe you some thanks as well, for taking me and my brother to my uncle’s. It’s only been a couple of summers, but so much has happened, and I fear me I simply forgot to thank you.”

  “Most welcome, I’m sure. Will you forgive me for lying to you? It’s not just the name. I never was a priest of Bel, as I’m sure you’ve realized by now.”

  “I have.” Neb paused for a brief smile. “And truly, I do understand why you’d not want to admit to being Gel da’Thae and all that. But why a priest?”

  “Sheer chance. I met an actual priest of Bel upon the road, and for a while we traveled together. Alas, he grew very ill and died just before we reached your city. So I took his tunic and appurtenances and—what’s so wrong?”

  Neb’s face had turned dead-white. “Ill with what?” His voice came out as a rasp.