winced. Dallandra sat down opposite her. In the pale light from the rising dawn, she seemed made of silver, with her ash blonde hair, steel grey eyes, and her pale skin, so unexpected in a person who lived most of her life out of doors. Silver or mayhap steel, Berwynna thought, like the pictures on the doors of Lin Serr.
‘In a moment I’ll have to go tend the wounded men,’ Dallandra said. ‘But I wanted to ask you about the book. You’ve seen it, I take it.’
‘I have,’ Berwynna said. ‘Not that I were able to read a word of it, mind. Laz, he did say that it be written in the language of the Ancients, your language, that be.’
‘It was written, then, in letters?’
‘Be not all books written so?’
‘They are, truly.’ Dallandra smiled at her. ‘But some also have pictures in them.’
‘I never did see such, but then, my sister wouldn’t be allowing me to turn its pages, and no doubt she were right about that, too. What little I did see did look to me much like the carvings on our walls.’
‘The what?’
‘Forgive me.’ Berwynna smiled briefly. ‘I do forget you’ve not seen Haen Marn. In the great hall, the walls, they be of wood, and there be carvings all over them, letters and such, I do suppose them to be. Laz, he did call some of them sigils, whatever those may be.’
‘They’re a particular type of sign, a mark that stands for the name of a thing or a place or suchlike.’ Dallandra paused. ‘Well, that will do as an explanation, though it’s not a very good one.’
‘’Twill do for me, truly. But the book, it were such a magical thing. It does ache my heart that I had somewhat to do with the losing of it.’
‘No one’s blaming you, Wynni. Try not to blame yourself. You’re exhausted, you’re mourning your betrothed, and every little thing’s going to weigh upon you now. One of these days your mind will be clearer, and you’ll be better able to judge what happened.’
‘I’ll hope that be true.’
‘It is true. I lost a man I loved very much, and I thought at the time that I’d mourn him all my life. In time, I laid my mourning aside and found another love. So I know how you must feel.’
‘You must, truly.’ For the first time since Dougie’s death, Berwynna felt – not hope, precisely, but a rational thought, that one day hope would come. ‘My thanks for the telling of this.’
‘You’re most welcome.’ Dallandra reached over and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Now, about the book, though, I’d like to know how large it was, how thick, how many pages.’
‘As to the pages, well, now, I be not sure of that. It were a great heavy thing –’ Berwynna stopped, struck by a sudden realization. ‘At least, it were at first, when Dougie did bring it to Haen Marn. But it did shrink.’
‘It what?’
‘I did carry it once on Haen Marn, and it were so heavy that there were a need on me to clasp it in both arms.’ Berwynna demonstrated by holding her empty arms out in front of her. ‘But when I did take it from the island, it did fit most haply in one of my saddlebags.’
‘That’s extremely interesting.’
‘Laz did talk of guardian spirits. Think you they do have the power to change it – oh, that sounds so daft!’
‘Not daft at all. That’s exactly what I think must have happened. A person with very powerful dweomer made that book.’ Dallandra got up, stretching her back as if it pained her. ‘My apologies, but I truly do have to go now. Your uncle should be here with your breakfast in a moment, but please, feel free to leave this tent. Come out whenever you’re ready. This will be your first day in a Westfolk alar, so everything’s going to seem strange to you, but your other uncle – Ebañy, his name is – will be glad to introduce you around.’
‘My thanks.’ Berwynna rose and joined her. ‘Be there any help I may give you?’
‘Not needed. I have apprentices.’ Dallandra cocked her head to one side to listen. ‘Ah, here’s Mic now.’ She strode over and held the tent flap open.
‘My thanks,’ Mic said as he ducked inside. He was carrying a basket in one hand and a pottery bowl in the other. ‘Bread and soft cheese, Wynni.’
Berwynna took the bowl from him. When she glanced around, Dallandra had already gone, slipping out in silence.
Dallandra found Neb and Ranadario at work in the big tent that the alar had allocated to its healers. Ranadario was explaining how to bandage a bad wound on the upper arm of one of the Cerr Cawnen men while Neb listened, his head cocked a little to one side as if he were afraid that her words would evade him. Their patient, a beefy blond fellow with the odd name of Hound, kept his eyes shut tight and panted in pain. The wound had cut deep into the side of his upper arm, missing the largest blood vessels but severing muscles and tendons. Dallandra doubted that he’d ever be able to use the arm properly again.
‘Ranadario,’ Dallandra said in Deverrian. ‘Did you give him willow water to drink?’
‘I did, Wise One,’ Ranadario said. ‘This cut is healing so slowly, though.’
Hound opened his eyes and stared at her. His breathing turned ragged, and Neb laid a hand on his unwounded shoulder to steady him.
‘Not slowly for a child of Aethyr.’ Dalla paused for a quick smile to reassure him. ‘It’s doing as well as we can expect. Don’t you worry, now. It’ll heal up soon.’
Hound returned the smile, then shut his eyes again.
With her apprentices to help her, Dallandra tended the wounds of the two Cerr Cawnen men and did what she hoped was right for the wounds of the others, four of them Horsekin and one a half-blood fellow. Since those who’d sustained the worst cuts in the fight to save the caravan had all died during their journey south, she could be fairly confident that those who’d lived to reach her would recover.
When she left the tent, Neb followed her with his fat-bellied yellow gnome trailing after. For a moment he merely looked up at the sky as if he were expecting rain. The gnome kicked him hard in the nearer shin.
‘Dalla,’ Neb said, ‘I owe you an apology.’
The gnome grinned and vanished.
‘You do, truly.’ She kept her voice gentle. ‘I wondered when it would come.’
‘Pride’s an infection in itself.’ He was studying the ground between them. ‘I should have spoken before this. I never should have tried to ride away like that.’
‘Well, it’s not like you’re the only man or woman either to kick like a balky horse during training. It’s a common enough stage in the apprenticeship, especially among the lads.’
Neb winced, his shoulders a little high, as if he expected a blow. ‘Common, is it?’ His voice choked on the words.
‘Very, actually.’ Dallandra felt genuinely sorry for his humiliation, but he’d earned every moment of it. ‘I take it you’re no longer so confused. Your decision about becoming a healer who incorporates dweomer into his work is a truly good one.’
At that he looked up again.
‘Now, I’m a healer, certainly,’ Dallandra continued, ‘but it’s only a craft for me. You’re hoping to try somewhat new.’
‘Hoping is about right. I don’t know if I can or not.’
‘No more do I, but I wager you’ll succeed. At this stage you’ve got to learn both crafts down to the last jot.’
‘I know that now.’ Neb’s voice rang with sincerity. ‘And I promise you that I’ll gather every scrap of knowledge that I possibly can.’
‘Good!