The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [33]
“And a lot less corrupt.”
“Huh! Who isn’t?”
They shared a laugh, interrupted by the boom and clang of gongs from the towers outside. When Rhodorix went to the window and looked out, he saw that the sun had reached zenith.
Servants appeared, carrying food, which they silently put on the table, then bowed their way out. While they ate, Rhodorix found himself thinking about Hwilli. If he and his brother became weaponmasters, he’d have the standing he needed to keep a woman. She appealed to him a great deal more than the long-eared people who ruled this dun. When he considered their cat-slit eyes, he wondered if they were truly human. He doubted it, but as long as they treated him and his brother so well, he would serve them as faithfully as he could.
Since they kept the herbroom locked, the scent of the phar macopeia lay heavy in the air. When Hwilli walked in, she could smell a hundred different tangs and spices. Master Jantalaber was standing by the marble-topped study table. He was turning the pages of a small, leather-bound book, but when he glanced up and saw her, he shut the book and shoved it to one side. Hwilli glanced at it but saw no name on the plain brown cover. Beside it on the table sat a basket of dried plants.
“A good morrow to you, child,” he said.
“I am not a child.” Hwilli drew herself up to her full height. “By your own reckoning, I’ve seen seventeen winters.”
“That’s true.” He smiled at her. “I call you ‘child’ out of affection, you see.”
“I—” Hwilli felt her anger spill and run like water from a broken glass vessel. “I’m sorry.”
“Come now, I know it must be hard on you, living here, so far from your own kind. But you have a mind, Hwilli, true wits, something I’ve not noticed much among your people, and you belong with us.”
Who has the leisure to grow their wits? We work too hard growing crops for your kind to gobble up. Aloud, she said, “Thank you. I know I’m lucky to be here.”
“And someday, after you’ve passed over the great river and seen the black sun rise in the Otherworld, you’ll be reborn as one of us. I know that deep in my heart.”
Tears filled her eyes, hot tears of rage at a promise, oft repeated, that seemed utterly empty to her, but she mumbled another thank you. When the master turned his back to arrange the dried plants on the study table, she wiped the tears away before he noticed them. He set the empty basket down on the floor.
“Before we start our lesson, I want to ask you about those strangers.” Jantalaber said. “Have they ever told you where they came from?”
“Only that it’s very far away. Their name for the Meradan is ‘rhwmanes,’ though. Roseprince told me that much.”
“Roseprince? Is that truly his name?”
“Well, that’s how the crystals translate it. It sounds like ‘Rhodorix’ in his own tongue. His brother’s name is Oldman, or Gerontos.”
“Ah, I see. The crystals find the root meaning of words.”
“Yes. The strangers’ word for prince seems to be rhix, but I have the feeling it doesn’t mean quite the same thing as our word.” Hwilli considered for a moment. “The words that come from the crystals have odd echoes to them. I’m afraid I can’t explain it any better than that.”
“The whole thing is very odd, but then what else would one expect from the Guardians?”
They shared a smile.
“Every now and then,” Hwilli continued, “Rhodorix uses a word that sounds familiar to me, one that my own kind would use, I mean.”
“I see. No doubt his people are related to yours somehow, then. You see, that’s what I mean about your wits. You observe things, you’re precise.”
“Thank you.” Hwilli could barely speak. The master rarely praised any of his apprentices. He smiled as if he understood her confusion.
“Now, you’ve studied very hard, and you’ve learned remarkably fast. I’m going to put you in charge of healing Gerontos’ broken leg. You can always ask me for advice, of course, but the decisions will be yours.”
“Do you truly think I’m ready?”
“Yes, I do. In a bit, you can go to his chamber and