A Time of Exile - Katharine Kerr [63]
“How many trees should we cut, Banadar?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Too many—ah, by the Dark Sun, far too many no matter how few it is! We need to go into the forest and see how much stacked wood’s there already, I suppose.” Halaberiel caught the puzzlement on Aderyn’s face and smiled, a painful twist of his mouth. “Come with us. There’s somewhat you need to see.”
In the last of the afternoon sun, they left the camp and crossed the neatly tended boundary of the forest into the dark and spicy-scented corridors of trees. In a clearing, not ten yards in, stood a structure of dry-walled stone and rough-cut timber about thirty feet on a side. When Halaberiel pushed open the creaking wooden door, Aderyn could see that it was stacked about a third full with firewood. Since by then he’d grown used to the parsimonious elven fires of dried horse dung and twigs, he stared at the wood as if it were a dragon’s hoard of gold and jewels.
“When one of the People dies,” Halaberiel said, “we take some of this seasoned wood to burn the body. Then we cut a tree to replace it and plant a new one. So, every time one of the People dies, a tree dies, too, and another is bom. Normally, it all works out. Now, though, there’s going to be a war.”
“And you’ll need dry wood.” Aderyn felt abruptly weary. “Lots of it.”
“Just so. But it’s going to be a problem. Even if we start cutting tomorrow, the wood’s going to be green for a long time. Ah, by the gods of both our people! If this place weren’t so sacred, I’d just withdraw and let the rotten-hearted Round-ears have the lakes.”
“Never!” Calonderiel’s voice was a snarl. “Banadar, how could you even say it?”
With a shrug Halaberiel shut the doors again and turned away, waving to the others to follow him. They were almost back to the camp when they saw Dallandra’s friend Enabrilia racing toward them, her long hair streaming behind her, her hands waving as she called out.
“Aderyn, Aderyn, hurry! Nananna’s dying!”
Aderyn was running before he quite realized it. Following Enabrilia, he dodged through the camp and came panting at last to Nananna’s tent. When he ducked through the flap, Enabrilia stayed outside. He could hear her ordering other people to stand back and keep quiet; then her voice faded away. Inside the tent, a pale dweomer light cast soft shadows. On a heap of leather cushions Nananna lay, her head cradled in Dallandra’s arms, her white hair unbound and streaming over her shoulders like a drift of snow. The old woman’s face was as pale and dry as parchment, the skin stretched tight over bone, her eyes huge and staring and dark as her cat-slit pupils strained to catch the fading light.
“Here’s Aderyn,” Dallandra whispered. “He’ll get out his medicines and help you.”
“There’s no need of that.” Nananna’s voice was a rasp of whisper. “Come here, child.”
Aderyn knelt in front of her and took one withered hand in both of his.
“Tell me, Aderyn, will you stay with us?”
“I will. My Wyrd lies here. I know that, even though I’m not sure what it is.”
“I know.” Her voice was faint, drawing him closer. “I’ve had one last dream. Teach my people, Aderyn. Teach them your dweomer to mend their shattered magicks. Teach them herb lore, too, to replace the physicians they lost so long ago.”
“Gladly, Wise One. Everything I know will be theirs.”
She smiled, a draw of bloodless lips, and rested for a long moment before she spoke again.
“Dalla, you shall teach him how to grow a pair of wings like yours. That will be his payment, to fly where he wills.”
“Done, then.” Dallandra’s voice was steady, but when Aderyn looked up, he saw tears streaming down her face. “Everything I know will be his.”
“Good.” Nananna’s breath came in a long sigh. “There must be no secrets between you, none, do you