The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [55]
“It finally came?” Jantalaber broke in.
“Oh, yes, but you won’t like it. The head of their guild told me they simply couldn’t expend any dweomer force on our project because they had their immensely important secret work on hand. He did wish us luck with it.”
“How kind of him.” Jantalaber seemed to be about to say more, then set his lips tightly together.
“Their secret work, Mistress?” Par said.
“It’s a puzzle they’ve been working on for hundreds of years,” Maral said. “I’m truly tempted to tell you what it is, too. I never swore any vow not to tell.”
“Oh go ahead.” Jantalaber suddenly grinned. “It will serve them right.”
“No bruiting this about, mind.” Maral paused to return his smile. “They’re trying to discover what language was spoken in the Blessed Lands, the earthly paradise where the gods created the People.”
“What? That’s daft!” Hwilli blurted without thinking. “My apologies, Mistress!”
“That was my reaction, too, actually,” Maral said. “No need to apologize. The guild head was not pleased with me for it, either.”
“I can well imagine,” Jantalaber said. “With the northern princedoms crumbling around us, how can they justify—”
“They say that if they can learn the language, then they can ask the gods to intervene.” Maral suddenly laughed, an unpleasant nervous chuckle. “They have their reasons, actually. If they could talk to the gods, they could circumvent the priests and their stargazing and their silly sacrifices.”
Jantalaber gave Hwilli and Par each a look as sharp as a dagger point. “Never ever breathe a word of this outside this chamber,” he said. “Do you understand? It could cost a great many people their lives.”
Both of them murmured their agreement. Hwilli could barely speak, thinking of such an impiety.
“It’s not just daft.” Jantalaber turned back to Maral. “It’s extremely dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Maral said. “Indeed. The guild in Rinbaladelan lives for itself alone, and I think the isolation has really and truly driven them mad.”
For a moment Hwilli wondered if she might be sick and disgrace herself. She took several deep breaths and fought her fear under control. They won’t be helping us with anything, then, she thought. No matter how bad things get here in the north.
Every morning, Rhodorix and Andariel walked through the stables. By that time the guards had captured a hundred and seven warhorses and trained a hundred riders. Each guardsman stood beside his horse while Rhodorix examined the horse itself to ensure that it was well cared for, and Andariel looked over the man’s gear for the same purpose. Usually they found a couple of slackers who ended up doing whatever unpleasant work needed doing that day. On this particular morning, however, they cut their inspection short when an out-of-breath servant lad came to fetch them.
“Prince Ranadar is outside,” he said. “He wants to talk with you both.”
They followed him out into the courtyard, white and glistening with the first real snowfall, and picked their way over the slippery cobblestones. Wrapped in a scarlet cloak, Prince Ranadar stood in the shelter of the doorway that led into the watchtower. When they started to kneel, he stopped them with a quick wave of one hand.
“It’s too cold for that,” the prince said. “The mages have brought me some grim news. Lin Rej has fallen to the Meradan.”
Andariel turned pale and took a sharp step back, which nearly cost him his balance on the slippery footing. Rhodorix flung out one arm to steady him, lest the captain faint and fall. So many unusual names had flooded Rhodorix’s mind in his few months in Garangbeltangim that it took him a moment to remember what Lin Rej was: a city of people who were usually called “Mountain Folk,” though Hwilli tended to call them “Children of Earth,” whatever that may have meant.
“Your Highness?” Rhodorix said.