“The ancient race of the Plains shared in true magic, the sagas confirm it,” interrupted Aritane hotly. “Such a lineage is no disgrace.”

“Perhaps we might circulate the truth among our immediate circle,” suggested Eresken diffidently. “I had better see what Jeirran needs. Until later, my beloved.”

He turned from Aritane and within a few strides the modesty that had so touched her was replaced with a well-disguised look of satisfaction. Aritane twisted her hands together before walking toward a knot of gray-clad figures sitting around a glowing brazier.

“Ari! Hold up there!” Another man in the dusky wool and long tunic that marked out the Sheltya hailed her. He was tall for their race, narrow shoulders hunched, wringing large hands in an absent gesture. A few curious heads rose around the compound and immediately ducked back to their work when they caught Aritane’s commanding glare.

“Bryn,” she inclined her head in reserved welcome. “I hadn’t expected to see you so soon. Didn’t we agree you would best serve the cause by continuing to travel with Cullam?” There was a faint sneer in her tone as she mentioned the name.

“Cullam has gone over the heights, summoned to the Hachalfess,” Bryn replied, confidence in his tone belying the diffidence of his manner.

“Sheltya at the beck and call of every goatherder as usual.” Aritane commented sarcastically. “You didn’t fancy the trip?”

“I made excuse to stay behind,” Bryn told her a little hesitantly. “I didn’t think it wise to go so far that I would only be able to contact you with far-speech and risk being overheard by the Elders.”

“If you don’t have the skill to shield yourself, perhaps that was wise.” Aritane looked at Bryn a touch contemptuously. “But why come here? I wanted you to stay within the fold for the moment, to warn us if suspicions are aroused.”

“The Elders will have more important things to concern them,” retorted Bryn with spirit. “Cullam has asked me to relay a message to the high peaks. A scholar has come to Hachalfess, seeking old sagas and asking about ancient lore. Cullam senses he is searching for true magic and wants to know what to tell him.”

“That stupid old man?” gasped Aritane. “He must tell this fool nothing, not a word. How else will our skills baffle the enemy? Surprise is our greatest advantage!”

“So what do we do?” demanded Bryn. “I’ve not yet passed on the message but I’m already going to be rebuked for delay. I cannot hold it much longer without arousing suspicions. The bones at Solstice telling every Sheltya and every soke to follow Jeirran to war will do me no good if I’m stripped of all knowledge before you act!”

“Come with me.” Aritane hurried Bryn toward the rekin, a forceful hand behind his elbow. “We must talk to Eresken at once.”

Hachalfess,

15th of For-Summer

“What do you suppose he’s telling him?” ’Gren shifted in his chair, as he had been doing constantly all evening. “Perhaps—”

“Perhaps you should be patient?” I waited for Halcarion to drop a star on my head. Usara and Sorgrad were deep in conversation with an old man in gray but the genial hum of the room made it impossible to hear what they were saying. I was no less keen than ’Gren to be involved but Sorgrad had told us very firmly that we were not wanted. Reluctantly I had to agree that introducing Usara as a scholar with Sorgrad to translate was as much as we could risk, given the aged visitor’s obvious caution in dealing with lowlanders. The men and women of the soke were keeping very strictly to their separate roles and duties around the old man so I’d dug out skirt and bodice from the bottom of my bag.

I studied the old man covertly. About the age of Garven, small-boned and hungry-looking, his loose gray tunic and cloak looked to have been made for a bigger man. With thin white hair and watery gray eyes set deep in a wrinkled face, he sat hunched in a fine-carved chair listening intently to Sorgrad. One disregarded hand shook with a faint palsy and I’d seen the same tremor in his head earlier. There was no way such a frail and ancient man had come up the trail we’d followed, not without help or a beast of burden.

“You were going to ask Doratie about Cullam,” I reminded ’Gren. The old women had been the first to welcome him when he arrived with no pack, no water and no support beyond the prop of a staff.

“She says he’s from the eastern reaches,” ’Gren shrugged.

“The valleys leading down to the Gap?” I wanted to be quite clear on this. “Across the higher ground to the west? He got here from there since yesterday?”

’Gren nodded. “Sheltya do that kind of thing.”

Which was either a lie to impress the people of the soke, or it was the truth. What was gained by a lie? Pretense to impress bites back when the falsehood’s revealed and these things always come out. What if it were truth? Then these Sheltya, whoever they were, had the same means to shift themselves from place to place that made Elietimm such a frustrating and dangerous foe. Which meant aetheric magic. Hope warmed me more than the dancing flames of the hearth.

’Gren fidgeted again. “I could go and see if they want a drink.” We were sitting as close as we could without attracting comment, which meant we could talk as long as we didn’t mind other people overhearing. The goldsmith’s assistant and one of the younger girls were doing the same at the opposite end of the room. From the affronted glares another lass was giving me, we’d taken the place of some other couple keen to get to know each other under the benign restrictions of family and custom.

“No,” I said a trifle curtly. “So, what have you been up to today?”

“Helping dose mules for worm, playing with the children, chopping firewood, the usual. I told the children an old story about wyrms burrowing under the mountains, eating up the rocks until Misaen captured them and locked them away!” He smiled with happy recollection. “You want to learn that one.”

“And are you going to be the one getting up past midnight when the little ones are all wetting their beds with nightmares?” Damaris wasn’t going to thank him for that.

“They won’t wake up. How did you get on with these lovely ladies?” he asked with a touch of malice.

“I had a very nice time polishing the pewter.” It might have been more productive if any of the women had spoken enough Tormalin to gossip properly but at least I hadn’t lost the touch. I picked some sand and wood ash from beneath my scuffed fingernails.

“Good evening.” Merial came to sit beside me, nodding politely at ’Gren. His eyes brightened at her small tray bearing gold-rimmed goblets and a small green glass bottle of colorless liquor. “We call it mountain dew. We make it from…” she frowned a little as she poured, “varsi? I don’t know the lowlander word.”

“Rye,” supplied ’Gren with pleasure.

I sniffed at my thimbleful and rolled it around the glass, noting the sluggish lines clinging to the sides. I was pleasantly surprised by the smoothness of the spirit and the tang of herbs on my tongue.

“My mother used to flavor hers with rowan berries,” ’Gren was saying, “but I think this has more character.”

“It’s very fine,” I agreed. “Do you distill it yourself?” If I couldn’t listen in on Sorgrad’s conversation, I could at least make myself agreeable with some of my own.

Merial busied herself with her spinning basket. “If there’s grain enough to spare.”

“Every soke has its different ways of finishing and flavoring it,” volunteered ’Gren, pausing to raise an inquiring brow at Merial before reaching for the flask at her nod. “One of my uncles always said if he got storm-lost in the heights, all he had to do was find a fess, taste the dew and he’d know where he was.”

Merial laughed. “A fair few men could claim the same.” She was deftly spinning woolly animal hair into a fine, even yarn.