The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [21]
"So the Dwaer can do all sorts of wonderful things if you learn how to force them into obeying you," Hawkril rumbled slowly, watching Embra read and thinking he'd seldom seen anything in his life so beautiful as her face, "and have a will of iron."
"In other words," Craer agreed, waving up at the Lady of Jewels, "we leave playing with Dwaer-Stones to her."
"But the king bade us find the other Stones, and bring them back or at least learn right clear who held them, and we swore to do so," Hawkril said, looking down at his friend with sudden soberness on his face. "I'm good with a sword, but that means nothing against such as that? He waved one large hand up at the glow under Embra's shapely chin, and growled, "It'll be a long time before I forget watching a castle fall on us!"
Craer shrugged. "I think we'll get so fed up with wandering around searching that it'll be almost a relief doing battle with anyone we do find holding a Dwaer! Anyone with the brain of a bat who has one isn't going to just show it to us… and anyone of less brains probably won't hold on to a Dwaer-or his life-for all that long, with wizards and Serpent-priests and the Faceless Ones all out looking for them."
"Thanks for the reassurance," the hulking armaragor growled, looking around the ruined library for lurking foes one more time. "I was trying to forget the latest crisis looming over all Darsar, in hopes that-for once-someone else would take care of it."
"If we tarry here much longer," Sarasper put in sourly, setting aside his pen, "long years will gather in all our bones and someone else will have to take care of it!"
"Whine, whine, growl," Embra said mockingly, as she drifted down to join them. "Do men who go adventuring ever say anything else?"
Craer winked. "Well, yes," he replied, "and they usually precede such utterances with, 'Ho, wench!' Shall I give you a sample-?"
Embra wrinkled her nose and waved him to silence, her nimble fingers twisting the gesture into a rude signal. Craer put his hands on his hips in arch mimicry of an affronted lady of high station, clucked in mock disgust, and rolled his eyes.
"I've an idea," Sarasper said in a dry voice. "Strut him up and down the Vale until anyone who has a Dwaer gets exasperated enough to try to blast him to ashes. Then, of course, we'll know who has one."
"And if their attempt to blast me doesn't miss?" Craer inquired, in injured tones.
The old healer shrugged. "The armies of Blackgult had no shortage of procurers, as I recall-and almost any of them would have to be less annoying."
Craer turned to face Sarasper and imitated Embra's rude gesture, with several elaborate flourishes.
"Shall we be off, then?" Sarasper inquired, ignoring the procurer.
"Whither, exactly?" Hawkril rumbled. "I've little stomach for parading down the entire Vale, given the love various barons seem to have for us."
"I wanted to talk about that," Embra said, nodding. The Stone at her breast pulsed brightly, once, and she frowned down at it. "Someone's trying to find us again."
There was a little silence as the three men drew in close around her, peering hard at the silent ruins around them as if expecting wizards, beasts, and bowmen to spring up triumphantly from behind every stone.
"Speak, lass," Hawkril grunted, hefting his warsword and keeping his eyes on what forest he could see through the riven walls. "I think Craer's left off being clever for a moment or three."
"That was a subtle hint, right?" the procurer murmured. "Yes, Embra, we're listening: talk."
Embra collected all of their gazes calmly, and said gently, "I do not want to say this and have you inwardly think I'm forcing you into something. For love of the Three, grumble now, and-"
"Save it not for after one of us has been killed," Craer murmured.
The three men watched the sorceress draw a deep