The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [86]
Loddlaen was watching her solemnly with his head tilted a little to one side. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I had a wretched time as a child, but I can see that yours was worse.’
‘Oh, maybe, maybe not. I’m surprised that all those little things still matter so much. But you see, I’m afraid that if I asked Nevyn or your da to teach me about dweomer, they’d just laugh. That would be so horrid.’
‘I can understand that.’ Loddlaen reached out and caught her hand in a sympathetic squeeze. ‘But I could teach you what I know.’
‘Would you? Will you truly?’
‘I will.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’ll be our secret until we see how strong your gifts are.’
‘Our secret?’ Morwen hesitated, feeling a stab of doubt. ‘Shouldn’t we tell Nevyn at least?’
‘And have him stop us? He might, you know. The masters are really jealous of their precious lore. They don’t want to share it with anyone they don’t think is worthy of it.’
If ever a person fell under the heading of ‘unworthy’, Morwen supposed, it would be her, with her nasty temper and well-stewed resentments, to say naught of her ugly face. Loddlaen—handsome, kind Loddlaen—smiled a little as he leaned towards her and touched her hand.
‘Oh do come on, Morri,’ he said. ‘It’ll be grand, having a secret that’s ours alone.’
‘So it would. Well and good, then, and my thanks.’
They talked until late that night, while above them the stars wheeled in a brilliantly clear sky. Somewhere well past midnight Morwen realized that she was in danger of falling asleep where she sat, and Loddlaen kept yawning. She gathered the remains of the honeycomb up in the leaves and hurried back to Devaberiel’s tent.
Fortunately Ebañy slept late the next morning. Apparently his father had kept him up far longer than Morwen would have. It was the middle of the morning before she woke, only to find Ebañy just beginning to stir. He was wet, of course, since he’d slept so long. She fed him, then took him down to the stream, where she washed out his blanket. Ebañy was singing to himself and playing some elaborate game with shiny pebbles when Loddlaen came hurrying up to them.
‘Morri?’ Loddlaen said. ‘I’m going down to talk with the merchant about Tirro. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘What’s Tirro done?’
‘Naught, naught.’ Loddlaen smiled at her. ‘I had a long talk with the lad early this morning, and we hatched a plan. I could use a bit of support.’
‘I’ll come then, of course. Let me just finish cleaning Ebañy up. He had that honeycomb with his breakfast.’
Honey and dirt smeared his face from ear to ear, but a twist of grass and some stream water soon solved that problem. She spread his blanket out to dry on clean grass before they left. Hand in hand they walked with Loddlaen across the empty stretch of meadow between the Westfolk and the merchant’s camps. Morwen felt as if she were crossing a real border, twixt the Deverry world and the Westfolk world, and that by going over to the Deverry side she’d gone among strangers rather than back to her kinsfolk. We’ve not been here long, she thought, but oh, it’s been so lovely!
They’d just reached the merchant’s camp when someone hailed them from behind. Morwen glanced back to see Gwairyc trotting after them.
‘Oh ye gods!’ Loddlaen muttered. ‘What does he want, I wonder?’
Gwairyc told them when he caught up. ‘I just thought I’d have a last word with Tirro.’
‘It might not be the last one,’ Loddlaen said. ‘Wait and see!’
‘What?’ Gwairyc snapped. ‘What do—’
Loddlaen chuckled under his breath. ‘Wait and see,’ he repeated. ‘We might be having a bit of a surprise.’
In Wffyn’s camp the muleteers were trotting back and forth. Some were carrying packs and packsaddles out to the herd to set beside the mules, who were