As she passed a row of filled benches, she barely overheard a whisper between two of those there, “Where do you suppose Damon found her?” And the answer, “I don’t know, but if there are any more like her there, I’ll take the next patrol.”
She felt a flush rise in her cheeks, but kept her head down and followed until Damon found them a place to sit, almost in the bow of the boat. The Theiwar wincher there nodded at the big Hylar, smiled at Willow, and called, “Full!”
The call was echoed from the other end of the boat, someone pushed off the gangplank, and the winches rattled as the boat headed out across the faintly luminous waters of the Urkhan Sea. Above, a sun-tunnel caught the final light of dusk and magnified a star that appeared in its field. Waves lapped at the side of the boat, and combs of spray rose off its bows. Willow shifted slightly, moving closer to Damon, then glanced at his face and frowned. He seemed, momentarily, to be far off. And a great sadness glinted in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Willow asked. There was no answer; he seemed not to have heard. After a moment the Theiwar boatman leaned toward her, raised a hand to his lips, and whispered, “You don’t know, girl? Damon had a wife once, a long time ago. Our boats weren’t as good back then. It was on this very line that a boat capsized, and she was drowned.”
“A long time ago, you say? How long?”
“A very long time,” the Theiwar said. “Maybe forty years or more.”
“Yes,” she said, turning to look at Damon, who was heading for the nearest lift. “Yes, that is a long time.”
It was a quiet and subdued Willow Summercloud who followed Damon Omenborn ashore. She had never ridden a lift and almost fell when the stage she was on shot upward into the Life Tree. But someone caught her and steadied her. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to look into one of the most striking faces she had ever seen—a Hylar woman with streaks of silver in her long hair and wide-set, thoughtful eyes that seemed somehow familiar.
“These things take some getting used to,” the woman said. “My name is Tera Sharn.”
“Hello,” Willow said. “I’m Willow Summercloud. I … this is the first time I’ve been to Thorbardin. I’m with someone, but he went ahead on another of these stages. He lives here, you know. His name is Damon. Damon Omenborn.”
“Of course,” Tera Sharn said. “I was in Daebardin when I heard Damon had returned. And you”—she looked Willow up and down, nodding her approval—“you came with him.”
“It really wasn’t his idea,” Willow admitted. “I think he’s been trying to get rid of me, but I can be pretty stubborn.” She looked around in confusion as the lift stage stopped at a higher level and started to step off, but the woman caught her arm.
“Not here,” she said. “Damon will be in the high levels. I’ll show you.”
“Thank you,” Willow said again. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“Even if he wants to lose you?”
“Oh, I don’t think he wants to lose me. Not really. He just doesn’t realize yet that he doesn’t, you see. Want to lose me, I mean. I mean, he hasn’t noticed yet, so I have to stay with him until he does. Notice. I mean, notice me.”
“Damon hasn’t noticed you?” Tera’s level eyes became even more thoughtful.
“Oh, he knows who I am. After all, I’ve followed him all over the wilderness and helped him defeat wizards, too. But he hasn’t noticed me.” She glanced down, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“It makes perfectly good sense,” Tera Sharn assured her. “Damon can be a bit dense at times. He takes after his father in that respect.”
“You know him personally, then?”
“You might say so, dear. I’m his mother.”
“Oh!” Willow’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, rust! I’m sorry. I mean, I shouldn’t have said all that about … about him not noticing.”
“Why not? I expect it is very true.” The stage stopped again, and again, and finally reached a level where Tera Sharn stepped off, pulling Willow after her. “Come with me, dear,” she said. “Damon is probably just ahead there, with his father at our quarters. But we shall go in the other way and join them presently.”
Tera led the girl around a series of turns, into another corridor, and through a plain wood door which closed behind them. Beyond was an archway and the sound of male voices, but Tera pulled the girl through another door and began to rummage through trunks and drawers. One after another, she brought forth a beautiful, filigreed kilt, a blouse of elvenspin, stockings and soft boots, and a plaid weskit. Willow’s eyes widened at the rich textures, the subtle hues of the fabrics. She had never seen such beautiful clothing.
Tera Sharn pointed toward a wall-trough, with a basin and soft cloths below. “Wash up from your travels, dear,” she said. “These things are for you. You can change beyond that curtain.”
“For me?” Willow gaped at the woman. “Why?”
“Because underneath all that travel grime, you are a very pretty girl,” Tera said, “and it’s high time my son noticed you.”
Leaving the girl to change, Tera went into the main room and greeted her son, then stepped back, gazing up at him. “You’ve changed, Damon,” she said. “Something about you …”
“He has had a run-in with wizards,” Willen Ironmaul said coldly. “The change you see is anger, and well he might be angry. What they were trying to do …”
“They can’t do anything without this.” Damon held out a stone that seemed to be constantly changing colors—from clear to white to shades of black to shades of red. “They have come to our land to build a place of sorcery. But without this, they can’t build it.”
“They will come for it then,” Willen said. “They won’t give up easily.”
“We will have to stop them,” Damon agreed. “But I have an idea about that.”
“Our son is thinking about forging an agreement with a wizard,” Willen explained. “He has one, more or less captive, outside the fortress. He thinks he can strike a bargain.”
“I think this particular wizard would rather learn more about us than build a tower,” Damon said. “I think we can bargain.”
“You think he would help us, against his own kind?” Tera asked.
“Oh, not directly. But he can teach us things we need to know. About what magicians can do and how they think. I have learned more from him, just in a few moments of conversation, than he realizes. I will learn more. But this,” he said, handing the stone to Willen Ironmaul, “must remain here. In Thorbardin. They must never get it back.”
“I promise you they won’t,” Willen said, then his eyes widened as the portal behind Damon opened, and Willow stepped in. “Well, hello! And who is this?”
Damon turned and his mouth dropped open. For a moment all he could do was stare, then he managed, “W-Willow? Is that you?”
“It’s the first time he has really noticed her,” Tera Sharn told her husband, quietly.
“The first …” Willen looked at Tera, then resumed his gaping at Willow. “By thunder! Has he been blind?”
Crooking a dainty finger, Tera led the regent of Thorbardin from the room. Willen looked back over his shoulder, at the two still standing in the other room, gazing at each other. “You had a hand in this, I’d say,” he muttered to his wife.
“Of course I did. When a person meets his match, it’s best that he realize it.”
14
Sorcery and Stubbornness
“Magic is as real as the moons of Krynn,” Megistal insisted, pointing at the spangled sky framed by the towering walls of the Valley of the Thanes. “Magic depends upon the moons, in fact. There are three orientations of power, just as there are three moons. You dwarves do believe there are three moons, don’t you?”
“Of course we do. We have seen them.”
Damon Omenborn added fuel to the little fire between them and glanced aside at the big Cobar warrior, Quist Redfeather, who was roasting a pigeon on a spit. Beyond
and some distance away was another fire where a dozen dwarven volunteers kept a respectful distance as they cooked their suppers. Damon and Tag had brought their humans to this place—the only part of Thorbardin exposed to the open sky—for a very good reason. With the fortified guardian halls that led to the subterranean roadways of Thorbardin blocked off, and even the great ventilator shaft closed and blocked from within, there was no way out of the Valley of the Thanes except straight up. Tag Salan had lowered a cable-ladder from above, the humans had followed Damon down to the valley floor where Damon’s dozen volunteers were waiting, then Tag had lifted the ladder away. The wizard might be able to levitate himself out of this place, but no human could simply climb out.
And Damon was fairly sure that neither of the humans would try to escape. They had their own reasons for staying.
Megistal’s fascination with dwarves and their stubborn resistance to magic was very real and very strong. The Cobar, on the other hand, had no personal interest at all in dwarves but had given Damon his oath that he would help guard Megistal in exchange for a horse.
So now they sat at a fire on the floor of the Valley of the Thanes, and Quist Redfeather roasted pigeons while the wizard and the dwarf discussed magic.
“You have not seen three moons,” Megistal argued. “You have seen two. The third one is …”
“I know.” Damon waved a dismissing hand. “It is black and cannot be seen. But we have sky-gazers, human. And we have the logic to realize that when a black spot crosses the sky on a regular basis, just as the moons do, then it, too, must be a moon. Yes, the moons are real. But magic isn’t!”
The wizard’s face creased in an exasperated frown. “How can you argue that magic doesn’t exist, dwarf? You have seen it. You have felt it. Magic exists!”
“I didn’t say it doesn’t exist,” Damon pointed out blandly. “I just said it isn’t real. Have you ever looked into a mirror?”
“Of course I have!” Megistal snapped. “What of it?”
“What did you see there?”
“I saw myself.”
“No, you didn’t. You saw only an image. Do you think that was really you, on the other side of the mirror, looking back?”
“Of course not.” Megistal sighed. “But what I saw was real.”
“It was not. An image is not reality. It is only an image.”
“A real image!”
“Like real magic,” Damon mused, stifling a grin. “Just because one sees it, that doesn’t mean it is there.”
“Gods!” Megistal jumped to his feet, stamped around in a circle, then sat again. “You are so stubborn! What is it you’re driving at?”
“You said you wanted to test magic on dwarves.” Damon shrugged, helping himself to a bit of Quist’s pigeon while the Cobar put another on to cook.
“Yes, I want to know why—and how—you managed to resist some very powerful spells,” Megistal repeated. “But why all these questions?”
“A fair exchange,” Damon said. “I’ll help you learn about dwarves, and you tell me about magic. You can begin by telling me, what, exactly, is magic?”
Megistal scratched his head. “That’s difficult,” he said. “Like trying to describe red to someone who has always been blind.”
“Try,” Damon demanded.
“Well … for instance, your barbarian friend there,” he said, indicating Quist.
“Barbarian?” Quist growled. “I am Cobar!”
“Cobar, then. But for example, it is possible that he could be not a human at all, but some other sort of creature. There is a reality for every possibility, and it is possible that in some other reality he is something else. Perhaps a wolf?”
“No. It isn’t.” Damon shook his head. “He isn’t a wolf. He’s a man.”
“Of course he is … in this reality. But there are many realities, you see. Magic is the bridge that links them. In another reality, this man might be a wolf.” Casually, the wizard waved a finger and muttered an incantation. Suddenly, where Quist Redfeather squatted, plucking a pigeon, it seemed there was something else instead. A large canine form shimmered around him, feral eyes fixed on the wizard.
“Now, you see?” Megistal said. “Now he is a wolf.”
“No, he isn’t,” Damon said.
Megistal pointed at the vision by the fire. “Don’t you see him? Look! That is no man. That is a wolf!”
“I see a man,” Damon maintained. “There is an image of a wolf surrounding him, but he isn’t it.”
“How can you see a man there?” Megistal shouted. “I don’t see a man!”
“You see what you want to see,” Damon said. “I see what is there.”
With a fierce growl, the wolf-figure bunched its haunches to leap at the mage, and Megistal hissed, “Kapach!” It was no wolf that hit the wizard, but an angry Cobar warrior. The two rolled away from the fire, spitting and thrashing, and Damon dived between them, separating them with strong, determined arms.
“That’s enough of that!” he growled.
The humans got to their feet, glaring at each other, and the dwarf stayed between them. “Enough!” he repeated. He pointed at the fire. “Both of you! Sit!”
Grudgingly, Quist Redfeather returned to his place, and Megistal followed. “You see?” he said. “He was a wolf.”
Damon turned to the Cobar. “Were you a wolf just then?”
“Yes,” Quist snapped. “And if he does that to me again, I’ll kill him.”
“Like I said”—Megistal spread his hands—“he actually was a wolf. That is magic.”
“He wasn’t a wolf,” the dwarf said stubbornly. “You and he both thought he was, but he wasn’t.”
“Gods!” Megistal snapped. “Then watch this, dwarf!” With an angry incantation, he folded his arms and rose a yard off the ground, then another yard, and another. When he was twenty feet above the fire he called, “Look at me, dwarf. Can you see me?”
“Very clearly,” Damon said.
“Where am I?”
Damon pointed at him. “Right up there.”
“Good! You see me where I am. Now how do you suppose I got up here?”
“Magic?”
“Exactly. Now we’re getting somewhere. You agree that I am up here in midair.”
“No, you’re not, really. You just think you are.”
Gently, Megistal lowered himself to the ground. “Stubbornness!” he muttered. “Sheer stubbornness.”
“Do you want to try another spell on me?” Damon asked.
“Do I have your permission?”
“As I promised.” The Hylar nodded. “But if it hurts too much I might have to kill you.”
“You will not!” Quist Redfeather growled. “When it comes to killing, the mage is mine.”
“Something mild, then,” Megistal agreed. “I’ll make you itch. That’s easy; I can do it with my eyes closed.”
“All right.” The dwarf stood, unslung his shield, and held it loosely beside him. “Make me itch with your eyes closed.”
Megistal closed his eyes, raised his hand, and muttered. Quickly, Damon raised his shield and turned it. Hidden within its curve was a fine Hylar mirror. The mage muttered his spell, pointing at the mirror, and Damon reversed the shield again, dropping it to his side where it had been.
“There.” Megistal opened his eyes. “Now, do you … Ooooh!” His eyes widened, and he began scratching himself in a frenzy. “What … What did you do?”
“I was just checking on something,” Damon said, smiling. “Interesting.”
Megistal was scratching so hard and so fast that it took him a moment to negate his spell. When it was gone, he sighed. The Cobar by the fire was choking with laughter.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” Damon said. “I have the volunteers I promised. You may try your spells on them, just so no one gets hurt without permission. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Megistal nodded, still wondering how the dwarf had managed to turn his spell against him.
As the moons climbed into the night sky, illuminating the Valley of the Thanes with a soft luster, Megistal studied dwarves, and Damon studied Megistal.
The volunteers were mostly young dwarves, rash and adventurous enough to willingly endure the mild punishments and general unpleasantness of being subjected to magic. Among them, though, unknown to Megistal, were two Thorbardin notables. Damon had seen no reason to confide in the wizard that one of his test subjects was Barek Stone, the captain general of forces of Thorbardin, and another was Gem Bluesleeve, warden of the watch.
Hours passed in the moonlit valley as Megistal tried spell after spell on dwarf after dwarf, while Quist Redfeather watched in fascination and Damon Omenborn made suggestions.
At Megistal’s utterance of the words, “Hippochus bes. Chapak!” Trip Sother, a long-armed Theiwar youth, was transformed—in the eyes of the two humans—into a gray horse. To the dwarves, it appeared as though the image of a horse had appeared, surrounding the Theiwar, but that Trip was still there. And when Trip turned and stepped away, the image faded. He was himself again.
“Fantastic!” Megistal muttered. “You, there! Tell me, were you a horse just then?”
Trip turned. “No, but I was inside one, and I didn’t like it.”
Clote Darkeye, a sturdy youth of dark Daergar descent, stepped forward and was levitated ten feet off the ground.
“Are you up in the air?” Megistal called.
“It seems like it,” Clote answered. “But I can’t be, so I’m probably not.”
Megistal’s pointing finger began to shake, and a sweat broke out on his brow. Despite the wizard’s best effort, the dwarf began to descend.
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