“The storm’s about to hit.”
“Like as to the demon’s own,” mutters the healer.
“Me or the storm?”
“Oh, the thunderstorms are like as to the White Wizards. Filled with lightning and lots of rain. When they’re over, they’re over. You, Dorrin…” She shakes her head. “You’re like a deep river-all calm on the top, the kind the rivermen love and respect, and fear.”
“Me?”
“You. What you’re doing with your twiddles, this old woman doesn’t know, but you’re going to change the world if the Whites don’t get you first.”
“You believe that, and you let me stay here?”
“This old world needs changing, child. What do I have to lose?” Her hands hold the pestle, and she continues to grind in the deep mortar. “Don’t know as I like how you did it, but you stopped that Gerhalm from killing Merga and her child. Already those sprouts in the garden are taller than any I’d plant would be by midsummer.”
“Anything I can do?”
“In a moment.” She empties the mixture of dried and crushed leaves into a small clay jar and corks it, then wipes the mortar clean. “You can grind some pepper.”
“Just pepper?”
“You asked if you could help.”
Dorrin takes the mortar.
Rylla hands him the bowl of peppercorns. “Just a thumbful or so, for soup. It’s always chill after a mountain thunderstorm, and these old bones get cold.”
“You’re hardly that old.”
“All healers are old. Even you are. And start grinding the pepper.”
After the worst of the storm has passed, Dorrin reclaims Meriwhen, pleased that she has not gnawed the bushes-not that she likes the elder bushes anyway-and wipes the saddle as dry as he can. He really needs a small stable to go with the cottage he plans. Every time he plans something, it gets more complicated. Then again, perhaps that is life.
The sun shines on his damp shirt by the time he rides into the yard behind the smithy. He waves to Petra, who is raking out Zilda’s pen, and receives a quick wave in return.
After he has finished a quick currying of Meriwhen, and as he is closing the stall, Reisa walks into the barn.
“That trader, the thin one from Diev, he stopped by this morning and left this for you.” Reisa hands Dorrin the folded parchment. “He seemed almost relieved when I said you weren’t here. He left in a hurry.”
Dorrin frowns, looking at the seal, letting his senses touch the wax. Both the hint of chaos around the seal and the wax itself tell that the letter has been opened and resealed. “He well might.”
“You don’t like him?”
“There’s something there that bothers me,” Dorrin temporizes, trying not to reveal the discomfort the evasion causes.
“It’s more than a little something.”
Dorrin shrugs rather than say more about Jamish. “I need to get into my smithing clothes.”
“I’ll bet you read the letter first.” Reisa grins.
Dorrin blushes.
“Still in love?”
He keeps blushing, even as he walks toward his room.
The room, shutters and window open, is still almost stifling as he eases open the seal and begins to read.
Dorrin-
It took a long time to get back to Jellico, since the coaster’s captain didn’t want to risk Tyrhavven and couldn’t afford the dues at Lydiar. We ended up in Pyrdya, a sad port, if you can call it that. I rode my nags to Renklaar and took a river barge up to Hydolar. That took two eight-days against the current, but I needed to save the horses for the hills on the way home.
I did sell your toy in Hydolar, but have kept the money until someone trustworthy is headed in your direction. I hope you get this letter, but since I cannot be sure, I am not sending coin with it.
The warehouse was a mess. Freidr was upset because I wasn’t there, and the Viscount had insisted on inspecting all trading houses. The supposed reason was that someone had stolen some goods belonging to the White Wizards. Of course, no one ever said exactly what those goods were. And we got such a thorough inspection that a lot of goods that were there when I left are nowhere to be found.
Spring had almost ended when I arrived home, and the heat of summer has already begun to press down upon us. There may be some coin to be made on a quiet run to Sligo northeast of Tyrhavven. I cannot leave too quickly, because the warehouse will take some more work.
I also miss you. I miss the laughter, even the snow in the face, and sitting in the cold talking. Sometimes, I think I should have stayed, but how could we have managed? I’m an impoverished trader, and you are a struggling smith. For that matter, how could Freidr have managed? But I miss you, my love.
Liedral
Dorrin purses his lips. Nothing in the letter is odd or strange. Why would a White Wizard be interested in a letter between two lovers? And what White Wizard? The one who looked over all of them on the road from Fairhaven had dismissed them casually. Is Freidr tied up with the Whites? Liedral’s brother is certainly not a White himself; that Dorrin would have known even when he met the man.
He refolds the letter and places in inside the wooden box. He misses Liedral, and the broken seal on the letter nags at him.
He pulls off his brown shirt, now showing some considerable wear, and pulls on the near-ragged castoff he uses in the smithy. Nails-he will probably be making nails, or something equally stimulating.
LXXXIII
AFTER BRUSHING AWAY a fly, which buzzes towards Kadara, Brede takes a deep pull of the cold redberry. “How do you keep it cold?”
“In the well,” answers Petra. “Dorrin says that the water comes from the Westhorns.”
Kadara waves away the fly, looking toward the goat pen. “Is that the one you saved?”
“Zilda? The white terror?” Dorrin laughs. “She’ll chew on anything. So she spends more time in the pen these days.”
“Especially when company’s here.” Reisa brings out a chair from the kitchen and sets it in the corner nearest the smithy door.
Dorrin looks out at the long shadows and the reddish cast to the light thrown by the setting sun. He shifts his weight on the stool, happy enough just to be sitting.
“Supper was good, thank you,” Kadara offers.
“Very good,” adds Brede. “Especially the seasoning.”
“You’ll have to thank Dorrin for that. Last year he took over the spices, and we were able to dry everything from peppers to mustard to sage. This year”-she gestures toward the patch of green behind the well-“things look even better. Darkness knows how he has time.”
“How are things with your squad?” asks Dorrin quickly.
“For now, they’re fine,” Kadara says. “But by late this year or early next year, that will change.”
“Perhaps,” adds Brede.
“Perhaps, cowdung! He’s been so good that we’ve been able to cut down on the… thieves raiding our traders.”
Dorrin rubs his chin with his left hand, still holding a half a mug of redberry in his right. “If you’re successful in stopping them in Spidlar, wouldn’t they just wait until the traders got into Gallos or Certis?”
Kadara tries not to look at Brede.
Brede shrugs. “I imagine the White Wizards have their own ways.”
“Besides,” Kadara continues, “they can’t very well make an agreement with the highwaymen only to rob Spidlarian traders.”
“I would expect not,” Reisa says from the corner. “Still, I hold with Brede. The Whites will find some way. They always do.”
“By the way, Dorrin,” asks Kadara, “how is Liedral? You’ve managed to avoid answering any questions for most of the afternoon and evening. She came during late winter, and you never mentioned that.
“She’s all right, according to her last letter.”
“That’s not exactly…” Kadara shakes her head. “She traveled through frozen light to get here, and you just think she’s all right?”
“No, it’s all right. I worry, but there’s not a lot I can do. I probably shouldn’t have let her go… but I wasn’t thinking…”
“Oh… now it comes out. You’re actually admitting you care for the woman?”
Dorrin looks at the barn, wondering if Kadara has forgotten how many years he went next door searching for her. Or is this her way of expressing relief that he has found someone who loves him?
“You should have seen them,” affirms Petra.
“Now, Petra. They did watch the Council night fireworks with us in the snow.”
“Where they stood melted.”
Dorrin hopes that the fading glow of twilight will hide his flush.
“Shouldn’t she be all right in Jellico?” asks Brede.
“Her brother is somehow tied up with the Whites, and he knows we’re from Recluce. Their warehouse was rather thoroughly inspected, and some things are missing.”
“You don’t think her brother would…”
“No. But…” How can Dorrin explain the feeling he has of being watched from a distance? Or letter seals that have been resealed? Or the general unease that follows him, that sometimes drives him to working to the greatest extent that his body will take? “You don’t know what the White ones will do,” adds Reisa.
“We’re beginning to understand,” Kadara responds dryly. “But why would they be interested in Dorrin?”
“I don’t know.” Dorrin looks blankly southward, up the sloping hillsides toward Rylla’s cottage. “They may not be.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” The voice is Yard’s. With the older smith’s comment, the conversation halts for a moment.
“Why do you say that, papa?”
“Man puts order in everything he does, even cold iron. Whites don’t seem to like that kind of order. Things just sort of fall into place around young Dorrin. Were I a White, I’d be interested in what he was a-doing.”
“So would I,” squeaks Vaos, from the steps, where he munches on a leftover bread crust.
“You’re still eating, scamp?” asks Petra.
Vaos nods as he takes another bite.
“Makes sense… hi a way,” muses Brede.
And yet, in Dorrin’s mind, too much is missing. What has he done besides heal a few people, grow some spices, and make ordered models and toys? Brede has killed more than a few chaos minions. Dorrin has done nothing of the sort. Dorrin looks southward at the last hints of light on the Westhorns. After all, what more can he say?
LXXXIV
THE GRAY STONE is heavy… too heavy. Dorrin lifts the sledge and pounds the tube into the space between the stones. Then he pours the powder down the tube until it is filled. The cap is wedged in place, and Dorrin lights the fuse-and sprints downhill and behind the rotting tree stump.
Crummmppp…
After trudging back uphill, he surveys the hole that will be his cellar, shakes his head, and places another wooden tube. With luck, by late summer he will have his foundation in place, one way or another. Again, he lights the fuse.
This time, the results are better, and he begins to shovel clay, soil, and broken rock. Still, he is revising his plans. The cellar will be smaller, far smaller, than he has planned. He wipes his forehead and pauses, looking uphill toward the healer’s cottage.
Rylla walks through the grass, bringing a pitcher of redberry and a ragged towel. Dorrin uses the towel first.
“There’s an easier way, Dorrin. And ye’d have more time for healing.”
“Oh?”
“Right now, some of the farmers and farm hands have slack time for a few eight-days. Not much, but some. You could pay them to dig out the rest.”
Dorrin frowns. “How much?”
“A half-copper a day a man.”
The healer is right; he cannot do everything. He should have asked, but it is hard for him to ask others.
“They dug the cellar for my cottage in two days. Yours would be bigger, it be true, but you have a hole for them to work from.”
“How do I do it?”
She smiles. “You put stakes at the corners, and make a rod showing how deep you want the hole. I will talk to Asavah. He was my sister’s man.”
Dorrin sips the redberry. He had not even known the healer had a sister. “Do you have any nieces or nephews?”
“A nephew, Rolta. He is a sailor, a mate, on ser Gylert’s biggest ship.”
Dorrin swallows the last of the redberry and points across the ridge toward the.garden. “Now that you’ve solved that problem, let me go back to checking the spices, especially the Winterspice. Can we get fine sand somewhere? I think the soil has too much clay.”
“Asavah might have some.” Rylla follows Dorrin up the slope.
“At a few half-coppers a wagon?”
“It might not be that much.” The healer smiles. “The sand, even from fresh water, is free. It’s the time of the men and the use of the wagon. We can get sand from the upper branch that goes into the Weyel. And don’t you worry, young fellow. This old healer can afford sand. Who knows? I might even be able to work it into the garden with ye.” Dorrin opens the cottage door.
“There ye go again, treating me like a fine lady, instead of the old crone I am.”
“You’re more of a lady than most who claim the title.”
“You’ll turn my head yet, young scoundrel. I take it the fine words mean you’ll be on your way to the smithy? After not healing at all this morning?”
Dorrin blushes.
“Now… now… you won’t even let me have a compliment without taking it away? Shame on you!” Rylla grins. “Off with you.”
“What about Granny Clarabur?”
“She can do without your pretty face. Besides, all she wants is to tell everyone how terrible her health be. She’ll have been doing that for near on ten years, and she isn’t close to dying yet.”
Dorrin bows to Rylla’s superior logic. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll see if Asavah can bring the sand, along with those strong fellows to dig your hole. You just bring the coppers, in coppers, mind ye.”
Dorrin is still shaking his head as he rides back to Yarrl’s.
When he arrives, he finds that Reisa has Vaos weeding the garden.
“Master Dorrin, master Dorrin, you’ll be needing me in the smithy, won’t you?” The imp’s voice is as close to pleading as Dorrin has heard, and he lifts his mud-covered hands almost in prayer.
“Yarrl decided to deliver the wagon work to Froos,” Reisa noted.
“Froos is in no hurry to collect what he commissions, I take it.”
“Nor to pay,” adds Petra from the barn.
“He said you’d know what to do.”
“Harness work for Honsard and Bequa, and the old cooper…”
“Milsta,” Reisa finishes.
“Master Dorrin?” asks Vaos.
“I need to curry Meriwhen. It’ll be a bit. You can finish there.”
“Yes, ser.”
Reisa grins from behind Vaos, “Just finish that row, young Vaos, and then you can wash off all the dirt.”
Dorrin dismounts and leads Meriwhen into the bam, still grinning at the thought of Vaos gardening.
“You’re mean.” Petra leans against the hay rake.
“Why?”
“Just because you never played as a boy, you don’t think anyone should.” She smiles, but her words are firm.
“I played,” Dorrin protests, unsaddling Meriwhen.
“At what?”
“Oh, I watched Hegl, or my mother, and sometimes I tried to build boats and sail them in the surf.”
“Who was Hegl?”
“Kadara’s father. He was a smith. And sometimes Kadara and I played.”
“Likely story. You probably spent more time watching her father.”
Dorrin pauses.
“I thought so.” Petra shakes her head, then sets aside the rake and walks toward th
e field where the cows are tethered.
Dorrin takes out the brush and ponders. Has he ever really played-except when Liedral has come to visit? Is that why he misses her? The only reason? No… that is hardly the only reason. He takes up the brush. He still has too much to do, and he needs to get to the smithy.
Once changed and in the smithy, Dorrin can see a broken wagon tongue and the old harnesses that Yarrl has left out, and even a skiving knife, should he need it. Vaos almost scampers into the forge area, his hands still wet.
“The big tank is low, Vaos,” Dorrin says. “I’d say we’ll need two pails of water. But first bring in another barrow of charcoal. Yarrl must have left even before midmorning.”
“Yes, master Dorrin, he did.”
“I’m not a master, you imp. I’m a striker, and flattery won’t get you out of getting the charcoal and refilling the slack tank.”
After looking over the work at hand, Dorrin lays out the tools he will need, and then rebuilds the forge fire once Vaos brings in the charcoal.
“Before you get the water, keep pumping this until we get white across to here.”
Vaos nods glumly.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s my mum. She’s talking about hooking up with Zerto. He’s a mate on old Fyntal’s Dorabeau. If n she does…”
“You sleep here most of the time, anyway.”
“It’s not me. It’s Rek. He’s my little brother. He’s ten.”
Dorrin waits.
“She won’t take him or me. She says my dad left us on her, and she’s had enough. I’m settled, but Rek…”
“What’s the problem?”
“He’s got a clubfoot. So he can’t run. Can’t do stable work or quick errands.”
“Can he stand or carry things?”
“Yes, ser. He’s as strong as I am.”
Dorrin realized Vaos has trapped him. “I’ll take a look.”
“Would you?”
“I said I would. But any decision’s Yarrl’s, you understand, and if you say a word, I won’t even try.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Get the water.”
“Yes, ser.”
, Dorrin checks the forge heat, then takes the tongs and sets the flat iron on the bricks. With the cold chisel he cuts off the old rivets and removes the broken sections, checking the iron. Finally he nods. The tongue can be welded together, but he will need new stock. He frowns, then walks along the junk pile until he comes to the assorted wagon and sleigh spars and timbers. As he vaguely remembered, there is a square oak brace that will do, with a bit of shortening.
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