The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [223]
“Well and good, then. I do feel the same, and all be as well as ever it can be.” She glanced at the bundle then let go his hand. “Dallandra, she did bring somewhat for you.”
Rhodry picked up the bundle and unwrapped it to reveal his silver dagger. Someone—Cal, he suspected—had rewrapped the hilt with fresh leather.
“It gladdens my heart to see this,” he said, “not that I’ll be riding the long road again.”
“You won’t, truly,” Angmar said. “You’ll be taking my hire and none others.”
He looked up and saw her smiling at him. He laid the dagger down and caught her by the shoulders.
“So I will,” he said.
And with their long waiting over, he kissed her.
EPILOGUE
THE WESTLANDS AUTUMN, 1160
Your soul does not sit in your body like a nut in a shell. It
forms the etheric double, which interpenetrates the flesh.
Indeed, the soul creates the body for its own purposes.
—The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
THE ROYAL ALAR REACHED the trading grounds near the seacoast shortly before the autumnal equinox. Several other alarli had already gathered there, and a few last traders from Eldidd lingered for the inevitable feasting and celebrations as well. The news spread quickly, that Prince Daralanteriel had established new farmlands and planned to found a city up north along the river that men called the Melyn but elves, Cantariel, though the name means “honey-colored” in both languages.
News of a quieter sort arrived when Medea flew into camp, carrying messages and a passenger. The bards immediately dubbed Prince Dar “Dragonfriend,” an epithet that Medea graciously acknowledged.
“He’s certainly my friend,” she told Dallandra, “so your people can call him that if they’d like.”
The passenger, Pol, whom Laz had freed from slavery, stood quietly beside the young dragon and looked at the trading ground with wide eyes. Contrary to Laz’s descriptions of him, Dallandra decided, he wasn’t so much obese as oddly formed, thanks to the barbarous practice among the Horsekin of turning young boys into eunuchs. He’d continued to grow long past the usual age, so that he was nearly seven feet tall with an abnormally large rib cage and long spindly arms. When he finally spoke, his voice was high-pitched but strong.
“I have messages for the prince.” Pol laid a hand on the leather pouch he carried. “From the Red Wolf dun.”
“Excellent!” Dallandra said. “Am I remembering this correctly? You’re a scribe?”
“Yes, I am, but I’m just learning the syllabary. I can write in Deverrian and Gel da’Thae, though.”
“You’ll pick up the Elvish script fast enough. The prince needs a scribe. The last one left his retinue to settle in the new town up north. Come with me.”
As Pol accompanied her through the camp, Dallandra noticed the other Westfolk doing their best not to stare at him, and he grimly kept his gaze fixed ahead. When they reached Dar’s tent, however, painted with red roses in memory of the Far West, the sight of the flowers made him smile. He reached out and touched one of the images.
“We have these at home,” he remarked, “in the seacoast villages. The legend runs that the People brought them from the old cities.”
“Do you?” Dallandra said. “So something of the Vale of Roses survived. That’s lovely.”
At Dallandra’s urging, Daralanteriel took Pol on as his new scribe. When he read the messages out, Dallandra heard what she’d been waiting for. Lady Solla had been safely delivered of a fine, healthy son. Gerran and his wife and heir would spend the winter with Tieryn Cadryc, then move out to the Melyn Valley with the spring.
“That’s splendid,” Dallandra remarked to Valandario later. “The Gold Falcon clan’s off to a good start.”
“So it is. Gerran will make a decent lord, I think.”
“If he doesn’t, Dar will take him in hand.”
Valandario nodded and pulled her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders. They were sitting in front of Dallandra’s tent and nursing a tiny fire against the chilly evening breeze. Around them swirled the normal sounds of a night camp: children crying, dogs barking, harp music, singing, and the occasional