pack on his back, rode some distance behind and kept the brood-mares with their young colts moving at a slow but steady pace. His brother, Talbrennon, rode point off to one side. In the middle of the afternoon Nananna finally admitted that she was tired, and they made camp near a scattering of willow trees. Normally, since they were only stopping for one night, they wouldn’t have bothered to unpack the tents, but Dallandra wanted to raise one for Nananna.
‘No need,’ Nananna said.
‘Now here, Wise One,’ Wylenteriel said. ‘Me and Tal can have it up in no time at all.’
‘Oh, children, children, it’s not time for me to leave you yet, and when it’s time you can fuss all you like, but it won’t give me one extra hour:’
‘I know that’s true,’ Dallandra said. ‘But–’
‘No buts, child. If you know it, act on it.’
Wylenteriel, however, insisted on a compromise: he and Tal set up a small lean-to to keep the night damp off and unpacked cushions from the travois to lay on the canvas ground cloth. Dallandra helped Nananna settle herself, then knelt and pulled off the old woman’s boots. Nananna watched with a faint smile, her thin gnarled hands resting on her frail knees.
‘I’ll admit I could use a bit of a nap before dinner.’
Dallandra covered her with a light blanket, then went to help set up the camp. The men were already watering the horses at the stream; Enabrilia was sitting on the ground by a pile of dumped gear and nursing Farendar, who whimpered and fussed at her breast. He was only a year old, still practically a new-born by elven standards. Dallandra wandered downstream, driven by a sudden stab of omens. Even in the bright sunlight she felt cold, knowing that warnings were trying to reach her like slivers of ice piercing the edge of her mind, an image of winter, when something would tear her life in half and change her irrevocably. Nananna’s death, probably. With a shudder she ran back to the safe company of friends.
That night, while the others sat around a small campfire, Dallandra went to the lean-to. Nananna made a large ball of golden light and hung it on the ridge-pole, then rummaged through her saddle-bags for the small silver casket that guarded her scrying stones. There were five of these jewels, each set in a small silver disc graved with symbols: ruby for fire, topaz for air, sapphire for water, emerald for earth, and finally, the largest of them all, an amethyst for aethyr. Nananna laid the discs on a cushion and frowned at them for a moment.
‘I had a dream while I was napping, and I need to see a bit more. Hum, the amethyst will do.’
Carefully Nananna wrapped the other jewels up in bits of fine silk cloth, then laid the amethyst disc in the palm of her right hand. Dallandra knelt beside her and looked into the stone, where a small beam of light gleamed in the dead-centre, then swelled to a smoky void – or so it seemed to Dallandra. Nananna, however, watched intently, nodding her head every now and then at some detail. Finally she spoke the ritual word that cleared the stone of vision.
‘Now that’s interesting,’ Nananna said. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘Nothing. I couldn’t see.’
‘A man of magic is coming to us from the east. His destiny lies here, and I’m to take him in.’
‘Not one of those smelly Round-ears?’
‘Any man who serves the Light is welcome in my tent.’
‘Of course, Wise One, but I didn’t think a Round-ear would have the wits for magic.’
‘Now, now! Harsh words and prejudice don’t suit a student of the Light.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t like the Round-ears much either, mind. But I’m trying. Do your best to try, too.’
In the middle of the next afternoon, they rode into the alardan, the great camp, where the People meet at the end of the summer after a long season’s wandering with their flocks and herds. That year the banadars of the scattered tribes had chosen the Lake of the Leaping Trout, the most southerly of a chain of four lakes along a wide river which the Eldidd men, with a characteristic lack of imagination, called simply Aver Peddroloc, the four-lake river. To the south stood a vast oak forest, tangled and primeval, that was a burying ground held sacred by the People for thousands of years. From the north shore spread an open meadow, where now hundreds of the brightly painted tents rose like flowers in the grass. Out beyond were flocks of sheep and herds of horses, watched over by a ring of horsemen.
As their little group rode up, Talbrennon peeled off to drive their stock into the communal herds. Dallandra led the others down to the lakeshore and found an open spot to set up camp. As they dismounted, ten men came running to do the heavy work for the Wise One and her apprentice. Dallandra led Nananna away from the bustle and helped her sit down in the grass, where Enabrilia and the baby joined them. Farendar was awake, looking up at his mother with a wide toothless grin.
‘Look, sweetie, look at the camp. Isn’t it nice? There’ll be music tonight, and you can listen.’
Farendar gurgled, a pretty baby, with big violet eyes, a soft crown of blond hair, and delicate ears, long and tightly furled, as all babies’ ears were. They would begin to loosen when he was three or so.
‘Give your Aunt Dalla a kiss.’ Enabrilia held him up. ‘Malamala’s sweetest love.’
Obligingly Dallandra kissed a soft pink cheek. There was a definite odour about the child.
‘He’s dirty again.’
‘Oh, naughty one!’
Enabrilia knelt down in the grass and pulled off his little tunic to unlace the leather nappy and pull it off. The nappy was stuffed with long grass, definitely well-used; Enabrilia shook it out and began to pull clean. All the while she kept up a running stream of sweet chatter that vaguely turned Dallandra’s stomach. Her friend gushed over the baby no matter what he did, whether soiling his nappies or blowing his snotty little nose. At times it was hard for Dallandra to believe that this was the same girl who used to train to be an archer and race her horse ahead of the alar across the grasslands, who used to camp alone in the forest with Dallandra, just the two of them. Every child, of course, was more precious than gold and twice as rare among the People; every elf knew that, and Dallandra reminded herself of it often. When Enabrilia started to put the grass-filled nappy back on, Farendar proceeded to urinate all over himself and her hand, but his mother just laughed as if he’d done something clever.
‘I think I’ll walk back to the camp,’ Dallandra said. ‘See if the tent is ready.’
The tents were indeed standing, and Halaberiel the banadar was waiting in front of Nananna’s with four members of his warband. Louts, Dallandra considered the young men, with their long Eldidd swords at their sides and their swaggering walk. Halaberiel himself, however, was a different matter, a far-seeing man and a skilled judge for the alarli under his jurisdiction. When Dallandra held up her hands palm-outward, he acknowledged the gesture of respect with a small firm nod.
‘I’m glad to see you, Wise One. I trust Nananna is well.’
‘A bit tired. She’s down by the lakeshore.’
‘I’ll go speak with her.’ Halaberiel glanced at his escort. ‘You all stay here.’
The
