The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [2]
“Ranadario,” Dallandra said in Deverrian. “Did you give him willow water to drink?”
“I did, Wise One,” Ranadario said. “This cut is healing so slowly, though.”
Hound opened his eyes and stared at her. His breathing turned ragged, and Neb laid a hand on his unwounded shoulder to steady him.
“Not slowly for a child of Aethyr.” Dalla paused for a quick smile to reassure him. “It’s doing as well as we can expect. Don’t you worry, now. It’ll heal up soon.”
Hound returned the smile, then shut his eyes again.
With her apprentices to help her, Dallandra tended the wounds of the two Cerr Cawnen men and did what she hoped was right for the wounds of the others, four of them Horsekin and one a half-blood fellow. Since those who’d sustained the worst cuts in the fight to save the caravan had all died during their journey south, she could be fairly confident that those who’d lived to reach her would recover.
When she left the tent, Neb followed her with his fat-bellied yellow gnome trailing after. For a moment he merely looked up at the sky as if he were expecting rain. The gnome kicked him hard in the nearer shin.
“Dalla,” Neb said, “I owe you an apology.”
The gnome grinned and vanished.
“You do, truly.” She kept her voice gentle. “I wondered when it would come.”
“Pride’s an infection in itself.” He was studying the ground between them. “I should have spoken before this. I never should have tried to ride away like that.”
“Well, it’s not like you’re the only man or woman either to kick like a balky horse during training. It’s a common enough stage in the apprenticeship, especially among the lads.”
Neb winced, his shoulders a little high, as if he expected a blow. “Common, is it?” His voice choked on the words.
“Very, actually.” Dallandra felt genuinely sorry for his humiliation, but he’d earned every moment of it. “I take it you’re no longer so confused. Your decision about becoming a healer who incorporates dweomer into his work is a truly good one.”
At that he looked up again.
“Now, I’m a healer, certainly,” Dallandra continued, “but it’s only a craft for me. You’re hoping to try somewhat new.”
“Hoping is about right. I don’t know if I can or not.”
“No more do I, but I’ll wager you’ll succeed. At this stage you’ve got to learn both crafts down to the last jot.”
“I know that now.” Neb’s voice rang with sincerity. “And I promise you that I’ll gather every scrap of knowledge that I possibly can.”
“Good! That’s all anyone can ask of you. Now we’d both best clean up. I’ve got gore all over my hands, and your tunic is a fearsome sight.”
Dallandra had just finished washing her bloodstained hands in a bucket of water when one of the Cerr Cawnen men walked over, another beefy blond with narrow blue eyes, a common type among the Rhiddaer men, who were descended from the northern tribes of “Old Ones,” as the original inhabitants of the Deverrian lands used to be known. This particular fellow introduced himself as Richt, the caravan master.
“You do have all my thanks, Wise One,” he said, “for the aid you and your people do give me and my men. I would gift you with somewhat of dwarven work. It be a trinket I did trade for in Lin Serr.” From the pocket of his brigga he brought out a leather pouch.
“I don’t need any payment, truly,” Dallandra began, then stopped when he shook a pendant out of the pouch onto his broad palm. “That’s very beautiful.”
“As you are, and I would beg you to take it.”
The pendant hung by a loop from a fine silver chain. Two silver dragons twined around a circle of