The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [196]
“It would be politic.” Dallandra glanced Cal’s way with a smile. “If Rori takes the messages to Cadryc, Cadryc will probably agree to pass the news on to Ridvar. For now, though, everyone needs to rest, even the dragons.”
“Especially the dragons, I’d say,” Dar put in. “They worked that dweomer, and it must have been draining. Maybe that young green one can take the messages on.”
At the prince’s orders, the grateful refugees spread out along a stream and made a rough camp in the tall grass. The dragons landed a good ways off to the south. Dallandra and Salamander left their horses with the Westfolk archers and made their way over the rough footing to join them. The two elder dragons were rolling on their backs in the grass, wiping away ash and cinders. At the sight of the two Westfolk, they rolled back onto their stomachs and arranged themselves in more dignified poses, front paws outstretched.
“I suppose you’re wondering how I worked that dweomer,” Arzosah said. “It’s a dragon secret, and I shan’t tell you.”
“Even if I knew,” Dallandra said, “I couldn’t make it work, even if I wanted to. I’ve never seen such an astounding act of magic in my life. I never dreamt that anyone could do such a thing, frankly.”
Arzosah rumbled and ducked her head in a modesty that Dallandra suspected of being false.
“You’ve saved the townsfolk,” Dallandra said. “I doubt me if we have to worry about being chased now.”
“I doubt it, too,” Rori said. “Dalla, I’d be willing to wager high that the dead troops were the flower of the Horsekin army. They had the best warriors, the best equipment, and a fortune in horseflesh. It’ll take them a long time to recover from this.”
“And the priestesses of Alshandra will have plenty to say about it, too,” Salamander broke in. “I can hear them now, nattering about how the army refused to listen to their goddess’ warning and thus paid for their stubbornness, arrogance, and so on and so forth. The rakzanir are going to have a cursed lot less authority from now on, well, the ones that survived.”
Dallandra knew that she should feel joyful over this defeat of an enemy that would have slaughtered her and her entire people, had they been given the chance, but the memories of scalded men and burning horses rose up in her mind and turned the victory ugly and sour. Yet a victory it was. As she walked back to camp she saw the children and the townsfolk, huddled together around their wagons—refugees, exhausted, impoverished, but alive.
That afternoon the townsfolk laid campfires and lit them with no fear of attracting their enemies’ attention. The women cooked soda bread and tried to quiet their frightened children while the men talked together in soft voices. Every now and then the earth shook, but each tremor felt weaker than the last. Still, Jahdo insisted that the town watch—he still thought of it as the town watch—post sentinels, just in case. No matter how many times the dweomerfolk told him what had happened, even his own sister, he found it hard to believe that the threat had died with the enemy army.
Late in the day he walked out to the northern edge of the camp and stood looking back in the direction of the place that had once been his home. An enormous smear on the horizon, the plume of ash still rose, and the south wind still blew it back toward the north. How long, he wondered, would the caldera vent? He could ask Arzosah, he supposed, and eventually he would. For the moment, he only wanted to stand and look at the end of everything he’d loved.
Niffa walked out to join him. When he turned his head to look at her, she slipped her arm through his.
“Be you mourning?” she said.
“Of course. Be not you?”
“I do, truly. As you do say: of course.”
Jahdo forced out a twisted smile. “Ai! Our homeland it be gone now past all reclaiming. The cursed Horsekin, they be welcome to it now.”
Niffa nodded and patted his arm. While he knew that she mourned Cerr Cawnen in her own way, he doubted if the loss meant as much to her as it did to him. He’d realized years before that her true home