made you a cup of herbal tea.”
“Coming,” Raine said.
When she turned back around, Mimsie was gone. It didn’t matter. Raine knew she’d be back. Spirits lighter, she crawled out of the tent and trudged back to the fire. As she drew near, Gertie and Mauric broke apart with a guilty start.
“What’s eating you two?” Raine planted her hands on her hips. “Did I miss something?”
Mauric offered her a steaming tin mug. “Um . . . we were wondering who you were talking to in the tent.”
Raine accepted the tea and sat down, her face burning. They’d overheard her chatting with Mimsie. No wonder they were acting peculiar. Should she lie, or tell them the truth? They’d think she was nuts.
“If you must know, I was talking to my Aunt Mimsie.”
The troll’s bushy brows rose. “The dead woman?”
“Yes.” Lifting her chin, Raine looked the troll in the eye. “I can see her spirit.”
Mauric’s eyes widened. “Tro, you see ghosts?”
“One ghost, and only in the last few months.” Raine blew out a breath. “It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Gertie said. “Necromancy’s unusual, but it’s as legitimate as any other talent.”
“I’m not a wizard. That’s absurd.”
“Of course it is.” Mauric slapped his thigh. “I’ll wager lots of people on Urp talk to the dead.”
“No, they don’t,” Raine said. “That would be weird.”
“Damn.” His shoulders slumped. “You’re a wizard.”
“So?” She looked from Gertie to Mauric. “It’s not a big deal, right? Wizards are probably a dime a dozen around here.”
“No, pet,” Gertie said. “Wizards are uncommon even in Tandara.”
“Thank Tro,” Mauric muttered.
Gertie gave him a repressive glare. “Most people have a smidgen of talent, little abilities that make life easier, but few are adepts. Magic takes training and discipline. More than that, it takes desire to become a wizard. Many of those born with the knack are too lazy to develop it.”
“What sort of talents are you talking about?”
“It varies,” Gertie said, with a lift of her bulky shoulders. “Brefreton’s people, for instance, are wonderful farmers. I once saw a Tannish farmer coax fruit from a stone. And the Esmallans weave beautiful cloth. Delicate as a spider’s web, and the colors are exquisite. What’s more, the fabric keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer, doesn’t tear or show dirt.” She warmed to her topic. “The Seths are renowned sword smiths, the Finlarans mighty warriors—”
“Stop, you’re going too fast,” Raine said, her brain whirling.
Mauric laid a hand on Gertie’s shoulder. “Let me draw a map. Maybe it will make more sense if she sees it.” Rising, he took a long stick and sketched a rough shape in the dirt next to the fire. “This is Tandara.” With a few, quick strokes, he divided it into segments, and pointed to a section at the top. “My country, Finlara, is here, and here—” He touched a smaller piece of the map that hugged the coastline beneath Finlara. “This is Shad Amar, the Dark Wizard’s territory, where we’ve been.”
“Where we are,” Gertie grumbled. “We shouldn’t have stopped.”
Mauric ignored her and moved the stick to a large patch to beneath Finlara and to the right of Shad Amar. “Tannenbol, Brefreton’s home.” He touched another portion of the map. “This big patch over here is Durngaria—it’s mostly plains.” He moved to the far right of the rough map. “Over here is Seth, the land of the dwarves. And in this corner is the Amedlarian Forest. That’s where the elves live.”
“There are elves?” Raine said, her eyes widening.
“Of course, but they seldom mingle with the other races. Standoffish, elves.” He moved the marker to the bottom of the map. “Esmalla is here and below the Great Plains and to the left is Valdaria.”
Gertie smacked her lips. “Fine vintners, the Valdarians.”
“Gertie is fond of Valdarian wine, but she loves Finlaran ale. Right, Gert?”
“I’d give my left teat for a mug of it right now.”
Mauric chuckled. “The Rowan has recently installed troll-proof locks to keep Gertie out of his ale.”
“He what? Well, I like that. Who do you think gave the mingy ale-pinch the recipe for his precious brew in the first place?” Gertie thumped her hairy chest. “I did, that’s who.”
“Is the Rowan like a king?” Raine asked.
“Aye, and pay no mind to Gertie’s snarling.” Mauric grinned. “She and my uncle are the best of friends.”
“Oh, aye, I’m crazy about him.” There was a dangerous gleam in Gertie’s eyes. “Locking me out of his cellars.”
“The Rowan’s your uncle?” Raine turned her head to stare at Mauric. “Does that mean you’re in line for the throne?”
He shook his head. “Nay, Trowyn himself chooses the Rowan.”
“The god of Finlara,” Raine said, trying to keep it all straight. “There are nine gods, right?”
“Aye. Trowyn, Kron, Magog, and Reba,” Mauric said, rattling off the names. “Seth, Gar, Valdar, Esma, and Tam.” He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Tro, I forgot about Tam.” He quickly scratched an irregular blob in the dirt next to his original map. “This is Tamir. The Tamirs build the finest ships in the world from tukalla wood. The tukalla tree grows only on the Isle of Tamir. There’s no better wood for shipbuilding in the world—no knots, straight grain. It won’t warp or rot, and it’s impervious to insects.”
Gertie knocked the ashes from her pipe and rose. “Fascinating, I’m sure, Mauric, but it’s time for bed. We’ll continue the lesson on wood craft later.” She gave Raine a kindly glance. “Try not to fret about the wizard thing, pet. You have talent, or you don’t. Either way, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Chapter 12
A Matter of Patients
The bowl hit the wall with a resounding crash, sending bits of crockery flying. Broth ran down the marble wall and pooled onto the floor.
“Stop trying to feed me dishwater,” Raven said, glowering at Glory. “A warrior needs meat to regain his strength, not this pap.”
Raven seethed with anger and frustration. Illness of any kind was foreign to him, and restoring Glory’s vision had left him weak as a babe, necessitating a delay in their departure. The delay chafed, but the unaccustomed weakness irked him a thousandfold more.
“My goodness, Raven, sometimes you can be stubborn as a troll.”
“I was raised by a troll. Dandled on her great hairy knee.”
Glory sniffed. “How could I forget? It’s obvious you inherited Gertie’s charming disposition.”
“Aye, and her appetite as well. And you know what they say about hungry trolls.”
“You’re welcome to eat an entire stag once you’ve recovered. In the meantime, it’s broth or nothing.”
“They’re one and the same.”
“I made this stock with my own hands from a secret recipe with healing properties,” Glory said. “Every day you brangle with me is another day you languish in bed.”
With that, she motioned to the serving girl