The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [1]
“In a moment I’ll have to go tend the wounded men,” Dallandra said. “But I wanted to ask you about the book. You’ve seen it, I take it.”
“I have,” Berwynna said. “Not that I were able to read a word of it, mind. Laz, he did say that it be written in the language of the Ancients, your language, that be.”
“It was written, then, in letters?”
“Be not all books written so?”
“They are, truly.” Dallandra smiled at her. “But some also have pictures in them.”
“I never did see such, but then, my sister wouldn’t be allowing me to turn its pages, and no doubt she were right about that, too. What little I did see did look to me much like the carvings on our walls.”
“The what?”
“Forgive me.” Berwynna smiled briefly. “I do forget you’ve not seen Haen Marn. In the great hall, the walls, they be of wood, and there be carvings all over them, letters and such, I do suppose them to be. Laz, he did call some of them sigils, whatever those may be.”
“They’re a particular type of sign, a mark that stands for the name of a thing or a place or suchlike.” Dallandra paused. “Well, that will do as an explanation, though it’s not a very good one.”
“’Twill do for me, truly. But the book, it were such a magical thing. It does ache my heart that I had somewhat to do with the losing of it.”
“No one’s blaming you, Wynni. Try not to blame yourself. You’re exhausted, you’re mourning your betrothed, and every little thing’s going to weigh upon you now. One of these days your mind will be clearer, and you’ll be better able to judge what happened.”
“I’ll hope that be true.”
“It is true. I lost a man I loved very much, and I thought at the time that I’d mourn him all my life. In time, I laid my mourning aside and found another love. So I know how you must feel.”
“You must, truly.” For the first time since Dougie’s death, Berwynna felt not hope, precisely, but a rational thought that one day hope would come. “My thanks for the telling of this.”
“You’re most welcome.” Dallandra reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “Now, about the book, though, I’d like to know how large it was, how thick, how many pages.”
“As to the pages, well, now, I be not sure of that. It were a great heavy thing—” Berwynna stopped, struck by a sudden realization. “At least, it were at first, when Dougie did bring it to Haen Marn. But it did shrink.”
“It what?”
“I did carry it once on Haen Marn, and it were so heavy that there were a need on me to clasp it in both arms.” Berwynna demonstrated by holding her empty arms out in front of her. “But when I did take it from the island, it did fit most haply in one of my saddlebags.”
“That’s extremely interesting.”
“Laz did talk of guardian spirits. Think you they do have the power to change it—oh, that sounds so daft!”
“Not daft at all. That’s exactly what I think must have happened. A person with very powerful dweomer made that book.” Dallandra got up, stretching her back as if it pained her. “My apologies, but I truly do have to go now. Your uncle should be here with your breakfast in a moment, but please, feel free to leave this tent. Come out whenever you’re ready. This will be your first day in a Westfolk alar, so everything’s going to seem strange to you, but your other uncle—Ebañy, his name is—will be glad to introduce you around.”
“My thanks.” Berwynna rose and joined her. “Be there any help I may give you?”
“Not needed. I have apprentices.” Dallandra cocked her head to one side to listen. “Ah, here’s Mic now.” She strode over and held the tent flap open.
“My thanks,” Mic said as he ducked inside. He was carrying a basket in one hand and a pottery bowl in the other. “Bread and soft cheese, Wynni.”
Berwynna took the bowl from him. When she glanced around, Dallandra had already gone, slipping out in silence.
Dallandra found Neb and Ranadario at work in the big tent that the alar