The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [137]
The warriors’ tent camp remained standing around the ruins. He circled high above it to spy on the Horsekin below. Gangs of slaves were removing the earth from the broken mound while the Keepers of Discipline, prominent in their red tabards, kept watch. Now and then he heard the faint sound of a whip cracking and a slave screaming in answer. Much of the mound had turned to mud. One set of slaves filled big baskets with the stuff whilst a second set carried it off to dump it on the ground nearby. As far as Rori could tell, they were spreading the earth evenly over several acres of the dusty plain, an activity that struck him as pointless until he realized that other slaves were plowing the darker earth under. From the scent he could tell that the leavings of the camp’s horses and mules were also enriching the ground.
Released from its long captivity under the mound, the spring had carved out a little streambed in the days since he’d been gone. It now ran gleaming into the river nearby. Rori saw not a single barge on the river, though their previous cargoes of stone blocks still stood on the riverbanks. The Horsekin might still be planning on building a fortress at the spot, he supposed, but he’d not be able to tell that from the air, not yet, at any rate. He’d seen enough to report to Prince Dar. Down below, the tethered horses were beginning to dance and pull at their ropes. They had smelled him. With a flap and boom of wing, he flew up higher, circled one last time, and flew off south.
Rori found the Westfolk camp some miles west of its last location. He circled it once, looking for Arzosah, but she was gone, off hunting, most likely. The thought of telling her about his decision to return to human form made him shudder and twitch in midair. With much flapping of wings he righted himself and picked a spot to land downwind of the flocks. As he was gliding down, he saw some of the Westfolk leaving the camp—Prince Daralanteriel, Calonderiel, Ebañy, and Dallandra. He settled in the warm grass, furled his wings, and waited as they came jogging up to him.
“News!” Rori called out. “Those otter folk turn out to be cursed interesting and more than a little dangerous!”
“To us or to the Horsekin?” Cal said.
“The Horsekin. And Envoy Kov has a thing or two to do with this tale, as well.”
The Westfolk sat down in the grass to listen. As he talked, Dar and Cal interrupted constantly with questions and comments about the fortress and the Horsekin. Ebañy asked for details about the Dwrgwn, but Dallandra said nothing, merely listened to his recital. When Rori finished, she lingered, though the others returned to camp. She got up from the grass and stood facing him.
“Well?” Dalla said.
“I”ve made up my mind,” Rori began speaking in Deverrian. “If you can turn me back to the man I was before, it will gladden my heart.”
“Well and good, then.” She smiled at him. “I’ll tell Val and Branna. We’ll do a formal scrying ceremony for the book, and that should set the astral currents flowing in the right direction.”
“Will you need me to be here for it?”
“We won’t. Why?”
“I’d best leave straightaway. Do you remember the Horsekin migration I saw? They should have reached the new fortress by now, if they were going there. They haven’t, which makes me wonder, just where are they heading?”
Dallandra shuddered as if she’d turned suddenly cold. “Indeed,” she said. “I think me we’d best have an answer to that, and soon.”
“Just so.” The dragon paused to rumble with laughter. “And we don’t need dweomer to find them as long as I have eyes. The book, on the other hand—”
“Well, if we don’t find it, mayhap we can devise some sort of dweomer on our own to turn you back again. It might be very dangerous.”
“To you and Val?”
“To you, my dear wyrm.” Dallandra patted him on the jaw. “I’d hate to strip you of this