The Silver Mage

by Katharine Kerr

  “We were speaking about various things,” Grallezar pointed to a leather cushion. “But none be pressing matters.”

  “My thanks.” Branna sat down on the cushion. “I might have received a hint of my true wyrd, and it does seem to involve Haen Marn. I was meditating on the golden bird, just like you told me to. The images that rose were all of the Old Ones, the people who lived in Deverry before the Deverrians came, I mean, not the Westfolk. I saw women weeping and holding out their hands to me. So I thought, I’m meant to help them. Does that sound right?”

  “It does,” Grallezar said. “But you do have much work ahead before you do understand those weeping women fully.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that. They seemed to have somewhat to do with Haen Marn. I saw glimpses of the island, or rather, an island that my mind called Haen Marn.”

  “That be an important difference, truly. Tis good that you do see it.”

  “Well, what I see doesn’t match what Laz and Wynni told us. I see the island in a big lake, not a small one, and when I looked to the shore, I saw pine forests, not oaks.” Branna frowned, considering. “And this is silly, I know, but when I was meditating on what the island looked like, I kept thinking ‘trout.’ I’m sure a lake like the one I saw would have trout in it, but still, it seemed, well, silly.”

  Grallezar considered, sucking a thoughtful fang. Outside the wind howled and shook the leather walls in a summer rainstorm.

  “Tell me,” Grallezar went on. “Saw you any new thing about the lore behind Haen Marn?”

  “The one detail I remember,” Branna said, “is that it could move. Not just to protect itself, I mean. We all knew that. But the Westfolk dweomermasters somehow or other could make it move where they wanted it to go.”

  Dallandra had so far kept silent, but now she cleared her throat, just quietly. Grallezar glanced her way and nodded to give her permission to join this discussion twixt master and pupil.

  “That’s utterly fascinating and very important, I should think,” Dallandra said. “Back before he became a dragon, Rhodry told me about his time on Haen Marn, and now Laz has, as well. Both of them mentioned the great hall of the manse. It has carvings on the walls, great swags of carvings, some of which seemed to them to be Elvish digraphs. Others, Laz told me, looked like the sigils of the various Lords of Aethyr, and still others were sigils that he didn’t recognize.”

  “I do wonder, then,” Grallezar said, “if the secrets of the isle be graved on those walls for all to see but few to read.”

  Dallandra looked at Branna and raised a questioning eyebrow. Branna shuddered, suddenly cold in the warm and stuffy tent. She had, she realized, just felt an omen-touch. “I think that’s true,” she said. “If I read the omen a-right.”

  “An omen, eh? So!” Grallezar clapped her hands together. “I think me you be linked to this isle more deeply than we did think before.”

  “Indeed,” Dallandra said. “When the time’s right, you and I will go there and see if we can read the walls—well, of course, if your master allows.”

  “Huh! Kind of you to ask.” But Grallezar was smiling. “I think me it would be an acceptable thing if my apprentice did get a glimpse of grand secrets. Truly, then she might even devote herself to her beginner’s studies with a bit more zeal.”

  Branna felt her cheeks burn with a blush. The two older women laughed, just gently, as if they, too, were remembering how it felt to be young.

  That evening, when they were discussing their day’s work, Branna told Neb about the carved walls of Haen Marn.

  “I wonder what those other sigils are,” she finished up. “The ones Laz couldn’t recognize.”

  “I wonder, too,” Neb said. “The healer who lived in Trev Hael used some odd-looking symbols for various minerals, like brimstone and quicksilver. She wrote them on labels and suchlike. She told me once that they were ancient, maybe Rhwmani or even Greggyn.”

  “Do you think they might have been Elvish?”

  “It could well be. I’ll write them out and ask Dalla in the morning.”

  By a golden dweomer light, Neb found a scrap of pabrus and mixed up some ink. Branna watched as he drew the symbols. At first they looked like meaningless squiggles and naught more, but once he’d finished a row of them, she noticed that they were all composed of some dozen marks arranged in different orders.

  “That one with the crescent over a straight line,” Branna said to Neb, “is that quicksilver?”

  “It is.” He looked up in surprise. “What made you say that?”

  “I don’t know. But the one with the crescent under the line, is that the metal silver?”

  “Right again! Dead silver, I suppose you could call it, so the crescent above the line might be the mark of some lively thing, like quicksilver.”

  For hours they pored over the symbols, trying to discern which mark denoted which property. In the morning, when they took their discoveries to Dallandra, she told them that the symbols indeed belonged to an ancient Elvish way of describing various natural substances.

  “What I wonder about,” Dallandra said, “is how your herbwoman in Trev Hael learned them.”

  “She told me they’d been handed down to her from her master in the craft,” Neb said. “That’s all I know.”

  “In a way it doesn’t matter. This is a very valuable thing you two have done, breaking these symbols down into their marks. Neb, please write the meanings up on fresh pabrus. This lore is too valuable to lose.”

  “Do you think it will help when we get to Haen Marn?” Branna said.

  “I do. I’ve been thinking about those unknown sigils on the walls. If they’re composed of some of these marks, deciphering them’s going to be much much easier.”

  “A question,” Neb put in, “how are you going to get everyone to Haen Marn when the time comes? I’m assuming you’ll want the other masters to help you.”

  “You’re quite right about that, but I don’t know how we’ll get there.” Dallandra smiled, a trifle ruefully. “Dragonback, if naught else. I’m sure Rori would carry us there—well, assuming he’s made up his mind about the transformation, but Arzosah is another matter entirely.”

  When Rori left Haen Marn, he flew a wide loop north, searching for the wagon train of migrating Horsekin. He suspected their goal to be the fortress Dwrgi dweomer had destroyed, but when he flew over the remnants of that construction, he saw no sign of the migrants. He counted up the days that had passed since he’d spotted them and realized that they should have arrived, even allowing for wagon breakdowns and the like.

  The warriors’ tent camp remained standing around the ruins. He circled high above it to spy on the Horsekin below. Gangs of slaves were removing the earth from the broken mound while the Keepers of Discipline, prominent in their red tabards, kept watch. Now and then he heard the faint sound of a whip cracking and a slave screaming in answer. Much of the mound had turned to mud. One set of slaves filled big baskets with the stuff whilst a second set carried it off to dump it on the ground nearby. As far as Rori could tell, they were spreading the earth evenly over several acres of the dusty plain, an activity that struck him as pointless until he realized that other slaves were plowing the darker earth under. From the scent he could tell that the leavings of the camp’s horses and mules were also enriching the ground.

  Released from its long captivity under the mound, the spring had carved out a little streambed in the days since he’d been gone. It now ran gleaming into the river nearby. Rori saw not a single barge on the river, though their previous cargoes of stone blocks still stood on the riverbanks. The Horsekin might still be planning on building a fortress at the spot, he supposed, but he’d not be able to tell that from the air, not yet, at any rate. He’d seen enough to report to Prince Dar. Down below, the tethered horses were beginning to dance and pull at their ropes. They had smelled him. With a flap and boom of wing, he flew up higher, circled one last time, and flew off south.

  Rori found the Westfolk cam
p some miles west of its last location. He circled it once, looking for Arzosah, but she was gone, off hunting, most likely. The thought of telling her about his decision to return to human form made him shudder and twitch in midair. With much flapping of wings he righted himself and picked a spot to land downwind of the flocks. As he was gliding down, he saw some of the Westfolk leaving the camp—Prince Daralanteriel, Calonderiel, Ebañy, and Dallandra. He settled in the warm grass, furled his wings, and waited as they came jogging up to him.

  “News!” Rori called out. “Those otter folk turn out to be cursed interesting and more than a little dangerous!”

  “To us or to the Horsekin?” Cal said.

  “The Horsekin. And Envoy Kov has a thing or two to do with this tale, as well.”

  The Westfolk sat down in the grass to listen. As he talked, Dar and Cal interrupted constantly with questions and comments about the fortress and the Horsekin. Ebañy asked for details about the Dwrgwn, but Dallandra said nothing, merely listened to his recital. When Rori finished, she lingered, though the others returned to camp. She got up from the grass and stood facing him.

  “Well?” Dalla said.

  “I”ve made up my mind,” Rori began speaking in Deverrian. “If you can turn me back to the man I was before, it will gladden my heart.”

  “Well and good, then.” She smiled at him. “I’ll tell Val and Branna. We’ll do a formal scrying ceremony for the book, and that should set the astral currents flowing in the right direction.”

  “Will you need me to be here for it?”

  “We won’t. Why?”

  “I’d best leave straightaway. Do you remember the Horsekin migration I saw? They should have reached the new fortress by now, if they were going there. They haven’t, which makes me wonder, just where are they heading?”

  Dallandra shuddered as if she’d turned suddenly cold. “Indeed,” she said. “I think me we’d best have an answer to that, and soon.”

  “Just so.” The dragon paused to rumble with laughter. “And we don’t need dweomer to find them as long as I have eyes. The book, on the other hand—”

  “Well, if we don’t find it, mayhap we can devise some sort of dweomer on our own to turn you back again. It might be very dangerous.”

  “To you and Val?”

  “To you, my dear wyrm.” Dallandra patted him on the jaw. “I’d hate to strip you of this form and not be able to get you back into the old one. And please!” She held up on hand for silence. “No chatter about your Lady Death!”

  “I shall hold my tongue, then.” He rumbled again. “If you’ll move a safe distance away, I’ll fly off. The thought of those immigrants troubles my heart.”

  Valandario had just finished casting a divination when she heard Dallandra calling her. She took a quick look at the arrangement of gems on the scrying cloth—nothing of particular interest—then went to the door of the tent to answer.

  “I need to consult with you about a ritual,” Dallandra said. “Concerning the dragon book. Laz hasn’t been able to find it, and I’m wondering if the time’s truly ripe.”

  “Come in, then,” Valandario said. “What’s brought this on?”

  “Rori’s finally made up his mind. He wants to be transformed.”

  “Finally, indeed!”

  Dallandra ducked under the tent flap. They stood looking down at the gemstones glimmering on Valandario’s divination cloth.

  “Naught there about the book,” Val said. “You mentioned a ritual?”

  “I”ve come to realize,” Dallandra said, “that the dragon book generates a current on the astral. That current most likely flows toward Rori. He can’t retrieve it when he’s flying all over the Northlands.”

  “He couldn’t pick it up without hands, for that matter, even if it landed on his snout.”

  Dallandra laughed. “Just so. There are spirits attached to it, and spirits are just so literal-minded. It’s a very powerful artifact. All of Evandar’s creations were.”

  “It’s a pity he didn’t realize it.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, do you think he considered the consequences when he unleashed these things upon the world? Or were they just toys to him?”

  Anger flared in Dallandra’s eyes. Valandario looked steadily back until Dallandra shrugged and turned half-away. “Perhaps they were. Consequences—no, he didn’t understand them, not at first, anyway.” Dalla sighed and turned back. “But about the ritual, I thought we might see if the current could be redirected toward Laz.”

  “Very well. I suggest we hold the ritual just before dawn. That will enlist the sun power. As it rises, it’ll shed its light upon us and the query both.”

  “I like that idea. Will you take the east, then?”

  “Yes. And if we put Grallezar in the south and Branna in the west, that leaves the north for you.”

  “That’s appropriate. I’m the one who’s going to have to wrest this dweomer out of the darkness.” Dallandra paused, thinking. “We’ll let Neb stand as sentinel. He does so resent being left out of these workings.”

  “I have no objection to that. I’ve been meaning to ask you, in fact, if he’ll be part of the Haen Marn ritual.” Val smiled briefly. “Assuming we ever find the wretched book, that is.”

  “No, he won’t. The dragon represents a tremendous binding of male force. I think it’ll be best to have the counterbalance be as female as possible.” Dallandra paused again. “I’ll have to meet Mara—Berwynna’s twin, you know—before I can tell if she should take part. From what Laz said, she’s mostly untrained.”

  “The sentinel again, then. Um, another question. How are we going to all get to this island? I take it you can’t hold one of the roads open long enough for all of us.”

  “I may not have to. It may be possible to bring Haen Marn to the Lake of the Leaping Trout. Branna had a vision while she was meditating. She thinks that might have been one of its original homes.”

  “One of them?”

  “That’s all she knows. Speaking of being untrained and all that, she doesn’t know how to extend her visions yet. We shall see, however, sooner or later. Assuming, as you say, we can find the wretched book.”

  On the morrow, some while before dawn, the dweomerworkers—Valandario thought of them as a warband of sorts—trooped out of the camp and walked out into an untrammeled stretch of grass. Val and Dalla trod out a ritual circle, marked it with powdered charcoal, then used their consecrated swords to level the grass within. Since they wanted to put the spirits of the working at ease, they laid the swords down to make an equal-armed cross in the circle’s center. Neb, however, kept his sword when he took up his place, not as part of the circle, but between it and the camp.

  From her place with her back to the dawn, Valandario sang out the ritual evocation of Aethyr. From their stations at the other cardinal points, the other dweomerwomen sang back their responses.

  “In the name of the Kings of Aethyr,” Val finished up, “I declare this circle a place of safe visitation for their subjects.” With wide arm movements, she sketched the sigils of the Kings into the air.

  “So we do pledge.” The three chanted in unison.

  In the gauzy silver light of the first dawn, the air within the circle became not quite visible but oddly present, as if it suddenly weighed more than the air outside the ritual marking. It seemed to quiver with unseen lives. In the center, just above the cross of swords, a glowing point appeared and took on color, a peculiar lavender at first, then changing to an unnaturally metallic turquoise. The point widened itself to a line. The line curled round into a circle, floating parallel to the ground. The circle expanded up and down, forming a glowing pillar of silvery light shot through with turquoise and lavender gleams and glints.

  Among the glimmerings of colored light a form appeared, vaguely human, vaguely female, her flesh dead-white, her blue dress strangely fleshy. She stepped out of the pillar and curtsied to Valandario, then turned back to point at the pi
llar. Inside it gleamed a long line of gold light, hovering perpendicular to the earth.

  “Behold this spirit,” the white woman said, “released from a crystal’s greedy maw by she who stands in the North. He has come to aid you.”

  “My thanks.” Dallandra stepped forward and addressed the light inside the pillar. “My thanks for your aid.”

  The spirit bent itself slightly as if bowing to her. Dallandra stepped back to her station.

  “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.”