The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [84]
“Which way does Dar want to go?” Dallandra said.
“West, I suppose. We generally do go west this time of year.”
“You sound doubtful.”
Cal shrugged. He looked doubtful as well, his eyes narrowing as he stared off toward the west, where a summer haze lingered in the lowering sun.
“It’s because of the Horsekin,” he said at last. “I keep wondering if they’re planning border raids out our way. They’d be more likely to attack in the west, away from our allies.”
“I can keep a watch by scrying.”
“How? You’ve probably never seen any of these raiders, if there are any, that is.”
“It won’t matter. I’ll scry for the terrain. If there’s a raiding party coming our way, the grass itself will show me where they are. I won’t be able to see them clearly, no, or pick out details, but I’ll be able to get a general impression of riders and horses. It’ll be vague, but—”
“It’ll be enough.” Cal finished the sentence for her and grinned. “Good. Do that. Oh, and thank you.”
That night, when Dallandra scried, she sent her mind out in a circle around the camp. While west may have been the likely direction for a raid, the Horsekin might well be leaving the northern tablelands by some eastern route. The forested tablelands themselves, where she’d never been, would remain closed to her scrying, a vast reddish mass of vegetable auras and dead rocks. The grasslands that abutted the maze of cliffs and ravines, however, appeared clearly to her questing mind.
Off to the east, perhaps some twenty miles distant, she saw a brilliant twist of red and gold, the mark of a campfire, and the muddled auras of a few horses and mules, standing heads down and resting in the tall grass. At the fire she could pick out four men, that is, she saw three unmistakably human auras and one actual person seen clear and whole. She recognized him as one of Prince Voran’s men who’d been wounded in the fighting of the summer before. While she couldn’t remember much about him, she’d paid him enough attention to fix him in the deeper levels of her mind. He and his three companions were eating, laughing now and then as they talked among themselves.
“Messengers, they must be,” Dalla told Cal. “And they must be looking for Dar.”
“There’s nothing else out here for them to look for,” Cal said with a grin. “No doubt they can follow our trail through the grass, but I’ll have Dar turn the alar back toward the east. We can meet up with them first and head west later.”
Sure enough, as the royal alar made its slow way back in the direction of Deverry, four riders appeared on the horizon. Once they rode closer, Dallandra could pick out Voran’s wyvern blazon on the shields slung from their saddle peaks. With a shout and a wave, the four spurred their horses to a trot. Calonderiel and four of his archers rode out to greet them and escort them and their messages back to Daralanteriel.
Later that afternoon, while the royal alar was making camp, Dallandra discussed the letters with Grallezar in their private language.
“Voran’s in a town in western Cerrgonney,” Dallandra said. “He’s met up with Envoy Garin and his retinue, and Garin had a real prize to give him—messages from the Horsekin to the Boars. A dwarven patrol intercepted them.”
“Excellent!” Grallezar paused for a smile full of fangs. “What did they say?”
“There he has a difficulty. No one in his retinue or Garin’s can read the Horsekin tongue. Voran was wondering if you might be willing to return with the messengers and join the conference.”
“Huh! Act as his scribe, you mean. I think not.”
“I rather thought you wouldn’t. He can be awfully high-handed.”
They shared a grim smile.
“What about one of your men?” Dallandra went on.
“None of my own men ken reading. Our fighting men are much like the Lijik warriors, willing to leave such things to their servants and the womenfolk.” Grallezar considered,