LITMIR.BIZ

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ask of you. Now we’d both best clean up. I’ve got gore all over my hands, and your tunic is a fearsome sight.’

      Dallandra had just finished washing her blood-stained hands in a bucket of water when one of the Cerr Cawnen men walked over, another beefy blond with narrow blue eyes, a common type among the Rhiddaer men, who were descended from the northern tribes of ‘Old Ones’, as the original inhabitants of the Deverrian lands used to be known. This particular fellow introduced himself as Richt, the caravan master.

      ‘You do have all my thanks, Wise One,’ he said, ‘for the aid you and your people do give me and my men. I would gift you with somewhat of dwarven work. It be a trinket I did trade for in Lin Serr.’ From the pocket of his brigga he brought out a leather pouch.

      ‘I don’t need any payment, truly,’ Dallandra began, then stopped when he shook a pendant out of the pouch onto his broad palm. ‘That’s very beautiful.’

      ‘As you are, and I would beg you to take it.’

      The pendant hung by a loop from a fine silver chain. Two silver dragons twined around a circle of gems, set in silver. The jeweller had arranged three petal-shaped slices of moonstone and three of turquoise around a central sapphire.

      ‘Are you sure you want to part with this?’ Dallandra said.

      ‘I be sure that I wish you to have it.’ Richt smiled, a little shyly.

      ‘Then you have my profound thanks.’

      When Dallandra held out her hand, he passed the pendant over, then bobbed his head in respect and walked away. The more she studied the pendant, the happier she was that she’d accepted the gift. Rarely did she like jewellery enough to wear any of it, but this particular piece made her think of the moon and its magical tides. A bevy of sprites materialized in the air and hovered close to look at it. She could hear their little cries of delight, a sound much like the rustling of fine silks.

      ‘Who gave you that?’ a normal elven voice said.

      Dallandra looked up to see Calonderiel watching her with his arms crossed over his chest.

      ‘The caravan master,’ she said. ‘In thanks for tending his wounded men. He told me it’s dwarven work.’

      ‘Oh.’ Cal relaxed with a smile. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Thus, it suits you.’

      ‘Shall I put it on?’

      ‘Please do.’

      The pendant hung just below Dallandra’s collarbone. As it touched the magical nexus at that spot, she felt emanations.

      ‘There’s dweomer on this piece,’ she said to Cal. ‘I’m not sure what, though. I’ll have to show it to Val later.’

      ‘Maybe you’d better show it to her now. Are you sure it’s safe to wear it?’

      ‘Yes, actually. Cal, you sound so worried.’

      ‘I keep thinking about the spell over Rori.’ He paused, glancing away, biting his lower lip. ‘And how dangerous it’s going to be to lift. I’ve got suspicious of everything dweomer, I guess.’

      ‘Reversing the spell may not be dangerous at all. We don’t know that.’

      Cal did his best to smile. ‘If it turns out to be dangerous, then,’ he said, ‘warn me.’

      ‘I will, I promise. I’ve been thinking about what happened to Evandar. He wasn’t incarnate, don’t forget, which meant there was nothing truly solid about him. He could appear to have a body, but at root he was nothing but pure spirit, pure vital force. After he drained himself of most of that power, there was nothing left for him to fall back on, as it were.’

      ‘Ah.’ Cal paused, visibly thinking this through. ‘I do see what you mean. But I’ve heard you talk of the – what did you call that? the rule of compensation or suchlike.’

      ‘The law of compensation, yes. Any great pouring out of dweomer force is going to have an equal reaction of some kind. The problem is knowing what it will be.’ Dallandra smiled briefly. ‘I may never be able to fly in my own bird form again. That’s my best guess.’

      ‘You’re willing to do that?’

      ‘Flying comes in handy, but it doesn’t mean a great deal to me any more. I have you, I have our child, and the ground seems like a very pleasant place to be.’

      He smiled so softly, so warmly, that she felt as if she’d worked some mighty act of magic.

      ‘I do love you,’ he said. ‘I’m terrified of losing you.’

      ‘Don’t worry, and don’t forget, I’ll have a great deal of help – Val, Grallezar, Branna, and for all I know, the lass on Haen Marn knows enough to take part in whatever the ritual is.’

      ‘That’s right! I tend to forget about them. It’s not like you’ll be fighting this battle by yourself.’

      Dallandra smiled and said nothing more. At the very beginning of a ritual she always asked that any harm it might evoke would fall upon her alone, but that Cal didn’t need to know.

      ‘I’m not just worrying for my own sake and for Dari’s,’ Cal went on. ‘If you –’ he hesitated briefly ‘– went away, what would happen to the changelings?’

      ‘There are other dweomer workers. Look at Sidro. She’s amazingly patient with those poor little souls, much more than I can be.’

      ‘True.’ He suddenly smiled. ‘Oh very well, I’m truly worried if I can forget things like that. I’ll do my best to stop, but I make no promises.’

      Richt and his gift reminded Dallandra that she had an extremely unpleasant task ahead of her, telling her fellow dweomermaster in Cerr Cawnen about the fate of the caravan. As she went to her tent for privacy, she wondered if Niffa might already know, since Niffa had lost a great-nephew in that attack. The plight of bloodkin had a way of reaching a dweomermaster’s mind. Indeed, as soon as Dallandra contacted her, she could feel Niffa’s grief, as strong as a drench of sudden rain.

      ‘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 favourite 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 dishevelled 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 wearing swaddling bands as we Deverry folk wrap our babies.

      ‘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

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