The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [155]
Branna glanced at Neb, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Not to me,” Branna said. “I don’t even known what a plane is.”
“Well, a plane is a craft term for a part of the world that most folk can’t see—or sense in any other way either. There are a number of these planes, and the astral is one of them. Let’s see, how can I put this? Part of the astral plane stores events the way writing stores words. The lore tells us that a record exists there of everything that’s ever happened. These records are all horribly jumbled up, and sometimes they’re unreliable, but they’re there.”
“Could I be seeing them when I’m asleep?” Branna said.
“You follow me quite well.” Dallandra smiled at her. “Eventually you’ll both learn to see these images when you’re awake enough to use certain tools you’ll also learn. That way you’ll be able to tell true from false.”
“It sounds like a true bard’s visions of the past,” Neb said. “I’m glad to hear it, too. I’ve been wondering why don’t I remember things the way she does.”
“I’m not sure.” Dallandra raised her hands and turned them palms up. “I’m hoping to find the answer to that, though.”
“I’d be grateful if you could,” Neb said. “But, at least, from what you’re saying, I can get my memories back from this astral thing if naught else.”
“Just so.” Dallandra paused to glance out the window. “Ye gods, the day is going fast! We have a good many more things to discuss, and it’s going to take us a very long time indeed. I think we’ve talked enough for one day.”
Neb was staring at the floor, frowning a little as if he were thinking things over. Branna realized that she was feeling more than a little disappointed. She’d somehow hoped that Dallandra could weave some sort of spell that would miraculously turn her and Neb into dweomermasters in a heartbeat, but now she knew better. There was so much lore, far more than anyone could learn in a short while, not even someone like her, who remembered bits and pieces of it. Patience, she told herself. Patience means safety.
“But can I ask one more question?” Branna said. “Is dweomerlore the only kind of memory that someone can recover on her own?”
“Usually,” Dallandra said, “but there are exceptions. Some kinds of knowledge shape a person’s etheric double—I’ll explain that term later—and that, in turn, shapes his body and skills.”
“Like swordsmanship?” Branna said. “Gerran’s always been a marvel and a half with a blade.”
“You do piece things together, don’t you?” Dallandra said, smiling. “That would appear to be one of those skills, truly.”
Loud voices passed in the hallway beyond the chamber. Someone knocked on the door.
“My lady?” It was Midda, yelling over the general noise. “Are you in there?”
“I am.” Branna got up and trotted over to the door. “Do you need me for somewhat?”
“I don’t, but Lady Drwmigga’s summoning the noble-born women. It’s time for her to display her needlework from her wedding chest.”
“I’ll be right there.” Branna turned back to the others. “Dallandra, did you want to come with me? It’s a thing new brides always do on the feast day, and I truly can’t get out of going.”
“I would, actually.” Dallandra got up, smoothing down her borrowed dresses. “I’ve never seen a Deverry wedding before.”
“Most aren’t this grand, but then, Ridvar’s of very high rank.”
Normally Branna enjoyed this particular part of a wedding celebration, but as they sat in the crowded women’s hall, she found her mind wandering back to the dweomerlore. She felt as if the normal life of a grand dun was flowing past her like a river on its way to some destination that meant nothing to her. In years past she would have been daydreaming about an elegant wedding of her own, but no longer. If Drwmigga’s life was going to flow like a smooth broad river, then her own would be more like a sea, with storms and half-hidden rocks and shoals where the waves broke in huge wings of white spray—dangers, yes, but it promised triumphs as well.
Once the womenfolk had exclaimed over Drwmigga’s fine needlework, everyone but her serving women withdrew