The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [168]
“Oh, my dear Evandar! No payment needed.”
“But I want to bring you something in return. Jill told you about the Westlands, I know, and your people left behind there. Would more news of them please you?”
Meranaldar looked up with a smile that seemed to lighten the entire room.
“Very well,” Evandar said. “What sort of information would you like?”
“Well, I—all of us—would really like to know how they escaped the destruction of the Seven Cities. Ever since Jill was here, I’ve been puzzling over that. She knew very little of the actual history.”
“Excellent! Please make me my map, and in return, I’ll bring back everything I can find out about the Great Burning. That’s what they call those days, you see.”
“And a good and true name for them it is.” Meranaldar looked away and sighed. “A very good name indeed.”
One sunny afternoon, though the snow lay thick over Cengarn, Dallandra went for a walk in the town, just to be out of the dun for a little while and no reason more. She was climbing the hill path back when she saw Evandar, standing in the shadow of a wall and waiting for her. With a laugh she ran to him and flung herself into his arms. He held her tight and kissed her.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she said. “Is it better out here, away from all the iron?”
“Somewhat, truly, but still I can’t stay long. I’ve got an errand to run.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.” He smiled with a hint of teasing; he knew perfectly very well that she was curious. “Dalla, answer me one thing. In all the Westlands, is Devaberiel Silverhand still the greatest bard?”
“As far as I know, it would be hard to find a better. Why?”
But instead of answering, he disappeared, leaving her scowling after him. Apparently she wasn’t the only one to receive a visit; later that day, when Rhodry joined her for a meager supper of bread and cheese, he remarked that Evandar had come asking him questions about Devaberiel as well.
“Did he give you a chance to ask him why?” Dalla said.
“Not much of one.” Rhodry drew his silver dagger and eyed the chunk of cheese doubtfully. “I’ll pare that mold away, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Please do.”
“So Evandar told me that someone he knows in the Southern Isles wants to know more about the Time of Burning and the Westlands. Who? say I, and why? as well. Oh, you’ll find out in good time, says he. It’s a—”
“Riddle, right?”
“Just so. I expect we’ll know when he tells us and not a heartbeat before.”
Dallandra made a sour face and watched him as he swept the parings of mold to one side of the board with his dagger. He wiped the blade clean on his shirt, then began to slice the cheese.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about the Time of Burning myself,” Dallandra said. “When the bards recited the history of the invasions, they called the invaders meradan, demons, or maybe goblins would be a better word in the Deverry tongue. A small people they said, and ugly, too.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call the Horsekin a beauty to behold, but true enough, they’re taller than I am, on an average, and from what Meer told us, their women stand as high as their men.”
“It’s puzzling. I wonder if maybe there were two groups of invaders, and it’s the small ones who were wiped out by plague.”
“Meer never mentioned that, and the gods—his and mine both—know that he’d expound upon the old days at a moment’s whim.” Rhodry divided the slices up evenly and slid her share toward her. “The only distinction he ever made was between the Gel da’Thae, the ones like him, who live in cities, and then the Horsekin proper, who travel with their herds up in the far north.”
“Just so. Well, when we get back to the Westlands, we can ask the bards ourselves.”
For a moment they ate in silence.
“I’ll not be going with you to the Westlands,” Rhodry said abruptly. “I promised Jahdo that I’d take him home to Cerr Cawnen, but after that, I’ll be heading back to the Dwarven lands.”
“Ah.” She considered her feelings for a moment and realized that she’d been expecting just this. “To hunt for Haen Marn?”
“To wait for it, more like—to sit in those desolate