The War of the Dwarves (41 page)

“Do you keep separate records for migrants?” asked Narmora, hoping to limit the scope of the search. She had no desire to
spend longer than necessary on the island, to which she had taken an instant dislike. Besides, she was worried that Dorsa,
a delicate child by nature, would catch a chill. “We’re looking for settlers from the Outer Lands,” she explained.

The archivist thought for a moment. “With a bit of luck and Palandiell’s blessing, you’ll find what you’re looking for in
the south wing.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “These records deal only with Her Majesty’s subjects. Outsiders, including
migrants from the rest of Girdlegard, are listed in the other wing.” He set off down the corridor to show them the way.

Narmora lagged a few paces behind, watching as Andôkai, brandishing a decree from Queen Wey, attempted to commandeer the library
staff and anyone else with the power of reading to help with her quest.

In word and deed, Narmora was a model famula—hard-working and loyal. Since the accident, she had applied herself more diligently
than ever to her studies, delighting the maga with her progress.

But Narmora’s motivation for learning magic had changed. The threat from the west and the future of Girdlegard were secondary
concerns. After the whispered conversation with Rodario that night in Porista, Narmora had returned to Furgas’s bedside and
sworn an oath of revenge that required her to bide her time and study patiently while disguising the rancor and fury that
filled her thoughts.

The little party reached the south wing of the library. Andôkai turned to her famula and pointed to the stacks on the right.
A wooden stepladder led up to additional shelves behind a balustrade. “You start on this side, and I’ll work toward you. The
others can take the lower shelves.”

Narmora nodded and ascended the creaking steps to the narrow gangway. A low rail protected careless readers from tumbling
ten paces to the floor. Andôkai waved to her from the other side and pulled out a folio. Dust scattered everywhere as she
turned the first page.

Narmora reached for a volume as well and began to read, her eyes roving over the spidery handwriting without attending to
the meaning.
How could you go to such lengths to bend me to your will?
She leafed through the volume, seeing nothing but the maga’s betrayal on every page.

The story recounted to her by the ashen-faced Rodario pointed to a single, terrible, explanation: Andôkai had orchestrated
the attack on Furgas as a means of recruiting Narmora as her famula. The maga’s strange behavior, the deaths of the highwaymen,
Djer
n’s determination to silence Nôd’onn’s former famula—it all added up.

She turned the page absentmindedly.

You’ll be sorry for teaching me your art
, she thought grimly, glancing at Andôkai. She was prepared to bide her time until Furgas was cured and the threat from the
west discounted or defeated, but sooner or later the maga would pay for her treachery, and Djer
n himself would be powerless
to help her. Narmora felt nothing but loathing for the woman who had put her husband in a coma and killed her baby son.

Anger simmered inside her, and she turned her mind to other thoughts, afraid that her älvish heritage would betray her hidden
rage.

“I think I’ve found something,” called Andôkai suddenly.

Her dutiful famula hurried over.

“Seventy cycles ago, a group of travelers arrived in Gastinga,” the maga continued. “It says here that they came from the
Outer Lands. Their children or grandchildren should still be alive.” She summoned the archivist and enquired about the location
of the place.

“It’s here on the island,” he said. “It takes two orbits to get there. I’ll loan you one of my assistants to show you the
way.”

“Splendid,” exclaimed Andôkai, satisfied. “Samusin has rewarded us for the long and wearisome journey from Porista.”

The man cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Estimable Maga could refrain from invoking foreign gods in the library; it’s a consecrated
building.”

Andôkai turned her head slowly and jutted out her angular chin. “I’ll speak the name of my god whenever and wherever I please.
Samusin saved me from Nôd’onn and lent me his power in the fight against the Perished Land. My fellow magi, devotees of the
gentle Palandiell, didn’t fare so well. It seems to me that my
foreign
god is more deserving of your respect.” She gestured to the shelves. “And don’t lecture me about desecrating your temple.
Palandiell left here when you filled her house with books.” She started down the ladder. “I want to ride within the hour.
Tell your man to be ready.” Her boots clacked harshly against the tiled floor.

Narmora raised her eyebrows and smiled sympathetically at the archivist, before following the maga out of the room. “I’m going
to check on Dorsa,” she told her mentor. “Who knows, I might be in time to stop Rosild unpacking our trunks.” Without waiting
for the maga’s approval she hurried through the corridors of the vaulted building, once home to Palandiell’s priests before
the temple was converted to a library and a new place of worship built in honor of the goddess.

She found her daughter in the arms of Rosild, the nursemaid employed by Andôkai for the duration of the trip. Rosild was still
young and her breasts were plump with milk. It was a mystery to Narmora why the maid had agreed to leave her own small child
and her family to accompany them on their journey.
Unless she was forced…

“She’s a thirsty wee thing,” said Rosild. She smiled proudly. “See, she’s putting on weight.” She handed the baby to Narmora,
who noticed the difference at once. The maid seemed to be gathering the courage to say something. She took a step forward.
“There’s something else I’ve noticed,” she said nervously.

“She’s filling out nicely—”

“No, I don’t mean that.” Rosild adjusted the blanket to reveal Dorsa’s right ear. “Maybe it’s just me, but the tip of her
ear looks pointed.” She paused, waiting for confirmation or perhaps a word of praise. “It’s only a little thing, but she’ll
be teased for it later,” she added when Narmora was silent. “We used to trim the ears of our hunting dogs at home. I don’t
see why it wouldn’t work on a—”

“No,” said Narmora firmly. “No one lays a hand on my daughter. She’ll look fine when she’s older, I’m sure.” She tucked the
ear under the blanket. “I don’t want you speaking of this to anyone, do you hear?”

Rosild nodded, her gaze lingering briefly on Narmora’s red headscarf. She looked away quickly.

“Very good, Rosild. Pack our trunks—we’re leaving in an hour.”

With her daughter on her arm, she left the chamber and made herself comfortable in the great hall where a fire was roaring
in an open hearth. The warmth drove out the cold of the wind and the spray, and Narmora and her child enjoyed the respite.

“We’ll be back in the sunshine soon,” she assured the sleeping Dorsa.

Gastinga, the village that they were heading for, lay further inland, and Narmora was looking forward to escaping from the
damp.

The journey to Wind Chime Island hadn’t been easy. Following the quake, the lakes that covered fifty per cent of Weyurn’s
surface had overflowed, their waters combining to form great reservoirs. The flooding had claimed a handful of casualties,
and the survivors had taken their misfortune in their stride, as Narmora and Andôkai had observed. Most had abandoned their
homes and moved to one of Weyurn’s many islands. The majority of Weyurnians lived on the lakes.

Narmora didn’t like the thought of it. To her mind, the islands seemed dangerously impermanent, and she was sure that some
of them pitched and rolled with the waves.

It was said that a few of the smaller islets floated across the lakes like croutons in soup. The islanders floated with them,
putting down anchor wherever the fishing was particularly good. Narmora felt queasy at the notion of drifting to and fro.

When the first log, a vast piece of timber bigger than the average man, had burned to a cinder, Narmora piled on more. Physically,
she wasn’t strong enough to shift the logs from the woodpile at the end of the hall to the hearth in the middle, so she used
magic instead. As if lifted by an invisible hand, four logs rose in the air and traveled through the hall, lowering themselves
dutifully onto the flames and catching fire.

By now, simple spells came easily to Narmora, and she performed the conjuration while singing softly to Dorsa in the tongue
of her mother, a beautiful, melancholy language that Furgas loved to hear.

The thought of Furgas reminded her to send a prayer to Samusin and Tion, entreating them to keep him well. Rodario had sworn
solemnly to do everything in his power for Furgas, and on this occasion she believed him. He knew as well as she did that
Furgas was in a critical state.

“Andôkai told me to fetch you,” said Rosild behind her. “She’s ready to leave.”

Narmora stopped singing abruptly.

“What a lovely song,” observed the maid. “What language was it? I couldn’t make sense of the words.”

“I made it up,” said Narmora, clasping the sleeping Dorsa and rising to her feet. “It’s nonsense really, but Dorsa seems to
like it.” She left the room, taking care not to meet the maid’s gaze.

“You’ll have to teach it to me,” decided Rosild, shouldering her bags and following her mistress outside.

Fifthling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

B
alyndis ran her hand over the mail-clad arm, feeling the powerful wrist and the formidable muscle beneath her fingertips as
she groped her way toward the shoulder. She checked the alignment of the spaulders and breastplate. Fitting armor to a warrior
over twice her size was quite a challenge, and wearing a blindfold made things worse.

Orbits had passed while she hammered the plates into shape. Some required hinges, while others were simply laced together—although
the instructions called for metal cable instead of standard leather thongs.

He won’t be undressing in a hurry,
thought Balyndis, who was beginning to wonder whether Djer
n ever removed his armor at all.

The final adjustments could be made only while the giant was wearing the suit, so Balyndis had blindfolded herself securely,
remembering how Tion’s beasts had screamed in terror on seeing Djer
n’s face. To make doubly sure, she kept her eyes closed
whenever her head was turned toward him.