* * *
“The Order has done well under your guidance,” said Amris, “though I never expected that guidance to be so lastingly personal.”
Gerant chuckled inside his head. After the initial melancholy had passed, it had done them both good to speak of his life after the storms, though they’d avoided the most immediate aftermath. Instead, they’d talked of the politics of mages and the struggles with gardening, once the weather had shifted, and over an hour had relaxed into the comfortable conversation Amris had once known well.
It would have been better to have such conversation with Gerant draped over him, his breath warm and his heartbeat soothing, but that absence didn’t hurt as much as it had five days or so back. This was the way they were now, and it was better than many found after a war.
None of us did, at first. I can’t take credit for the idea either—that was Ayleen. Do you remember her? She was a tall lady, and I believe her hair was still red when you left, though it went gray very quickly. Extremely fond of dogs.
Amris called to mind a tall, spare figure in dark robes, frequently present alongside a cup of tea and a tray of pastries when he’d come home from training. Once, she’d arranged the pastries in a half circle to make some point to Gerant, with a lemon scone as the focal point.
He wondered if anyone made lemon scones anymore. Or tea.
He’d liked the dogs. He supposed he’d liked Ayleen, too, though they’d had little in common aside from that.
She focused on the properties of rocks and metals, as a rule, and she always had more than a slight penchant for necromancy. All ethical, of course—she thought about bringing back one of her dogs, she said, but she decided they had bad enough breath when they lived.
“Practical lady,” Amris said, laughing.
I do seem to find their company, don’t I? Though Darya’s practicality takes very different forms.
“She’d be a strange sort of wizard, or scholar.” It was difficult to be careful while sounding as though he wasn’t. “That’s no slight to her intelligence, of course, but she seems ill-disposed toward theory—toward much that doesn’t progress in one direction or another, in fact.”
True. Though she’s excellent at stillness to a purpose—well, you’ve seen her hunting.
“Yes, with a variety of prey.” He thought of her descent, arrow-like, onto the korvin’s back, prevented his mind from going on to their encounter at the stream, and ended up remembering the fire in her face when she’d spoken of her bond to Gerant. “It’s well that the two of you found each other, and not only for my sake. She cares a great deal for you.”
I’m very fond of her as well. As I said, I seem to have a taste for the ridiculous and valiant.
While Amris was laughing, the door opened, and Olvir stepped inside. His earnest face turned immediately perplexed at the sight of his companion laughing in an empty room, a Sentinel’s sword on his lap, and he started to step backward. “Apologies for the intrusion.”
“No, no. It’s your room too. Er—”
By all means, tell the poor lad. Before he thinks you’ve cracked under the strain, ideally.
“You know, do you not, about the Sentinels and their swords?”
“The spirits?” Olvir asked. He closed the door and crossed to his bed, and Amris became gladder that he’d insisted the younger man stay. He looked pale and drawn, and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat. The day had been hard on them all, and the knight might have gotten the worst of the training—or pushed himself deliberately to avoid thinking.
Amris had done as much, in his time. “Aye, just so,” he said. “Well, the spirit in Darya’s sword is my lover. Or was.” He made a face. “There’s…some difficulty about describing it. Beloved, still, and always, but—”
“But he’s a spirit in a sword,” Olvir finished. “And unless I’m in error, that makes you considerably older than you appear.”
“True, in a fashion.” Briefly, Amris sketched the situation and was more than a little surprised by Olvir’s relative lack of astonishment.
That must have shown, for Olvir gave a slight, sad smile and a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Thyran’s returning, sir. Once I’ve got my mouth around that, any news after is easy to swallow. Besides, it’s not the first oddness I’ve had close at hand.”
“Ah, I should have expected as much from a knight,” said Amris, and laughed. “Still, it’s a great comedown for me as a figure of mystery and excitement.”
There’s nobody like Tinival’s servants for keeping you honest, after all,Gerant pointed out.
Chapter 29
An important thing to keep in mind,Gerant said to Darya, and Darya said to the small audience in the mage’s tower,is the physical enhancements of the twistedmen leave scars, magically speaking, or holes. Their flesh is far harder to affect than yours or—well, than mine some forty years ago.He laughed, Darya grinned, and the mages produced a couple of smiles between them.
The army wizard was a small person with bronze skin and a cap of dark hair, close cut to their skull in the style a lot of wizards sported; working around candles did that. By their side was the square-built old midwife who, Hallis had told Darya, apparently was known for a side trade in fortune-telling, good-luck charms, weather-witchery, and maybe the occasional curse, though nobody had come right out and said that. Third in the line was a gawky, spotty, towheaded lad, with a squint that spoke of nearsightedness and ink-stained fingers from writing: an apprentice with no master, just a lot of old books and experiments in his father’s barn.
Other than what the gods might do for their servants and the Sentinels might manage in partnership with their swords, those three mages were all the magical power at Oakford’s command, outside of healing.
