the general impression of a jumble of thoughts. ‘It was because of the healing lore, I think. He seemed to want to learn that as well, and Grallezar has none.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help? I can easily take him through some of the work.’
‘If he’ll listen to you, and he’d blasted well better!’ Her image smiled in relief. ‘If nothing else, you can keep an eye on him for me.’
‘Gladly, and if he won’t listen to me, I’ll smack him a good one.’ He flexed one arm. ‘We mountebanks and jugglers have strong muscles, you know.’
Dallandra laughed, and the sense of relief strengthened.
‘I may hold you to that,’ she said. ‘But how are you? You sound well.’
‘I am indeed, having survived another miserable winter. I was wondering, oh princess of powers perilous, where you and the royal alar might be.’
‘Still in the Westlands, but ultimately we’re heading for the Red Wolf dun.’
‘Splendid! I’ve got news for our prince. There’s a message waiting for him here from Prince Voran. His royal self sounded more than a little put out that he didn’t know where to send the message, too. He wants Dar to meet him in Cengarn to discuss some mysterious matter.’
‘How odd! I’ll tell Dar, certainly, but we’re going to stop along the way. He wants to visit Lord Samyc, since he’s Samyc’s overlord now.’
‘Ah, I see. However, if he could send Cadryc a letter, announcing his most regal plans, it would set at rest both Cadryc’s mind and that of Prince Voran.’
‘I’ll have him do that. Neb can write it, and it’ll do him good to earn his keep.’
Salamander laughed under his breath. ‘How far away are you?’
‘A good long way. We’re travelling up the Cantariel.’ Dalla paused briefly, calculating. ‘We’re maybe a couple of hundred miles from the coast. Well, maybe a little more, closer to two hundred and a half, say. I can’t be any more sure than that.’
‘Of course. In vision it looks like you’re west of Eldidd.’
‘We are. The travelling seems to drag on and on, somehow, but perhaps I’m just tired. It’s a good thing we started as early in the year as we did, or we wouldn’t reach you till high summer. As it is, we should get there some while before. Curse it all, at moments I wish Meranaldar were still riding with us! He could be a bore, but he knew how to mark out time.’
‘Eventually we all will, oh mistress of mighty magicks, whether we want to or not. Such things always seem to matter in towns, and towns, alas, lie in our destiny. If naught else, having a royal dun would let his peers know where to send Dar letters.’
While the absent Meranaldar might have known how to mark out time, someone arrived at the Westfolk camp not long after who understood space and distances. Just as the alar was pitching the tents for a night’s rest, the silver wyrm flew in, circling high over the camp, then landing a good half a mile off to avoid panicking the horses. Dalla took her sack of medicinals and hurried out to meet him.
The dragon lay down to allow Dallandra to examine his wound, a thin pink stripe on his silvery-blue side. When she’d first been treating it, she’d cut a piece of leather, boiled it with wax to keep it from stretching, and marked the length of the cut upon it. When she measured the cut against the marked strip, she found the wound the same length as before. Although it looked pink and clean, it still opened into flesh, not scar tissue.
‘Rori, you’ve been licking it!’ Dallandra said.
‘I have not!’
‘Then why hasn’t it healed up?’
‘Arzosah tells me that dragons heal as slowly as they grow, but truly, she’s as puzzled as you are.’
‘Especially slowly, I imagine, when the dragon’s not done what the healer asked of him.’
‘I swear it, Dalla, I’ve not licked it or scratched it or rubbed it against anything. Well, once by accident I did rub it against a rock, but it hurt so much I made sure I’d never do it again.’
Dallandra set her hands on her hips and glared at him. He raised his head and glared right back.
‘At least it’s not bleeding,’ Dallandra said. ‘Does it ever?’
‘No,’ Rori said. ‘But it’s driving me daft, itching itching itching! Ye gods, sometimes I’m tempted to lick it, I have to admit. It’s worse to itch than to ache, I swear it.’
‘I can wash it with willow water for a little relief now that you’re here. It might sting at first.’
‘Stinging’s better than itching.’
Rori sat up while Dallandra got together a leather glove, a little heap of dry horse dung, a kettle of water, and the strips of dried willow bark. She lit the dung for a fire, brought the water to a simmer, tossed in a good handful of bark, then took the kettle off the fire and allowed the mixture to steep. While they were waiting, Valandario came walking out from camp to join them. She was carrying something clasped in her right hand.
‘I was wondering if you could answer me a few questions,’ Val said to the dragon, ‘about this.’ She opened her hand to reveal a chunk of lapis lazuli the size of a crabapple, carved into an egg-shape. A fine gold chain ran through a hole drilled into the smaller end. ‘Dalla told me it belongs to you.’
‘So it does,’ Rori said. ‘Or it did, once. I wondered what had happened to it.’
‘I found it on the ground with your clothes,’ Dallandra said, ‘after the transformation.’
‘Ah, I see.’ He sighed in a long hiss. ‘It’s of little use to me now. Val, it’s yours if you want it.’
‘That’s very generous,’ Valandario said, ‘but I assure you that I wasn’t trying to get it away from you. I was just wondering what it is. It’s got dweomer upon it, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. An old dwarven woman gave it to me – Otho’s mother, in fact.’ He turned his massive head Dallandra’s way. ‘Otho the dwarf, the silver dagger’s smith – I doubt me if you knew him. He’s the one who got me to Haen Marn, in fact, for all the good it did the poor old bastard. I never met a man more sour than Otho, and I hope to all the gods that I never do, either. Be that as it may,’ he turned back to Valandario, ‘his mother told me that no one could scry me out as long as I was wearing that talisman. She may well have been right, too. I know that Raena couldn’t find me when I was wearing it.’
‘No more could Jill,’ Dallandra said.
‘Very powerful, then.’ Val considered the lapis egg with a small frown of concentration. ‘Are you telling me that the Mountain Folk have dweomer? Here I always thought they mocked it.’
‘The men do,’ Rori said. ‘The women don’t. What their men think doesn’t matter a cursed lot to dwarven women.’
‘Good for them,’ Val said. ‘But are you sure that the women used dweomer on this stone?
