That was where Wolf found her. Her audience had grown to include most of the camp, Myr’s raggle-taggle army as enthralled as any bunch of hardened mercenaries at her favorite tavern. He walked quietly closer until he could hear what she was saying.
“. . . so we snuck past the dragon’s nose a second time. We had to be careful to avoid the puddles of poison that dripped from the old beast’s fangs as it slept.”
She had just thrown away her career and her home—no matter what the outcome of this, she had disobeyed orders. If she returned to Sianim, it would be as a criminal and a deserter. She knew that. Knew that Myr’s little band of refugees was doomed unless they had the luck of the gods—and he didn’t believe in luck, not good luck, anyway. Yet here she was, entertaining this grim and hopeless bunch with her relentless cheer.
“Dragon’s ears”—she spoke in such serious tones that several people in her audience nodded, including, to Wolf’s private amusement, Myr—“though you can’t see them at all, are very acute. There we were, the four of us, loaded down with all sorts of treasures, sneaking past this huge beast that could swallow us all in one gulp. We held our very breath when we neared it. Not a sound did we make, we stepped so soft.” Her voice dropped to a carrying whisper. “Now you remember those bejeweled golden goblets Wikker’d liked so well? Just as we crossed in front of the dragon . . . that great beast, he breathed out, and it was as if we were caught in a spring storm the wind was so bad. It grabbed one of Wikker’s goblets, and it landed right on that giant fiend’s scale-covered muzzle.” She closed her eyes and looked sorrowful for a moment, waiting . . .
“What happened?” asked a hushed voice from the crowd.
Aralorn shook her head and spread her arms. “What do you expect happened? It ate us.”
There was a short silence, then sheepish laughter as they realized that she’d been telling them a tall tale from the beginning. Wolf was close enough to hear Stanis’s disgruntled, “That’s not how it should have ended. You’re supposed to kill the dragon.”
Aralorn laughed, hopped to her feet, and ruffled the boy’s hair as she passed by him. “There is another ending to the story. I’ll tell you it later. Now, though, I think that I hear someone calling us for lunch.”
Aralorn ate the last of the bread and cheese that was lunch, and Wolf touched her on the shoulder. She dusted off her hands and followed him without a word. They slipped out of camp and scaled one side of the valley. Once on the top, they followed a faint trail through the trees that led to a cliff with several dark openings, including a large, shallow-looking cave.
Wolf walked past that and took her into a smaller opening twenty paces farther along. As he entered the dark tunnel, the crystals on his staff began emitting a pale blue light. Aralorn hadn’t noticed that he was carrying the staff while they were walking, but she supposed that it was just part of being a mysterious mage . . . or maybe it was just Wolf.
“These caves would make a much better shelter than the tents. Why aren’t you using them?”
Wolf motioned to a small branch and halted her with a hand on her arm. He tilted the staff slightly until she realized that directly in front of them was a dark hole. “Aside from the problem of lighting them—which could be managed—there are several of these pits. That one goes down far enough to kill someone, and there are some holes deeper than that. If there were no children, you might risk it, but it’s too difficult to keep them from wandering. We are storing a lot of the supplies in a few caves near the surface, and I drew up a map for Myr of a section that is pretty isolated from the main cave system. If it becomes necessary to move the camp into the caves, we can. But it is safer in the valley.”
Aralorn looked at the blackness in front of them and nodded. She also stayed close to Wolf the rest of the way through the caves.
They came to a large chamber that he illuminated with a flick of a hand. The chamber was easily as spacious as the great hall in the ae’Magi’s castle. Carved into all the walls were shelves covered with books. Wooden bookcases were packed tightly with more books and stacked in rows with only a narrow walkway between them. Here and there were careful stacks of volumes waiting to find places on the crowded shelves.
Aralorn whistled softly. “I thought that Ren’s library was impressive. We’re going to read all of these?”
Wolf shrugged. “Unless we find something before we have to read them all.” As he spoke, he led her through one of the narrow pathways between bookcases to an open area occupied by a flat table that held an assortment of quills, ink, and paper. On either side of the table were small, padded benches.
Aralorn looked around, and asked, “Where do you want me to start?”
“I’ll take the grimoires. Normally, I know, you can tell if something is magic, but for your safety let me look at the books before you open them. There are spells to disguise the presence of magic, and some of the grimoires are set with traps for the unwary. I’d prefer not to spend valuable time trying to resurrect you,” he said.
“Can you resurrect people?” She kept her voice mildly curious though she’d never heard of such a thing actually happening. He’d brought all of this here from somewhere, just as he’d transported that merchant and the supplies. She was ready to believe he might bring people back from the dead.
“Let’s not find out,” he said dryly.
“So, what do I look for, I mean other than a book titled Twenty-five Foolproof Ways to Destroy a Powerful and Evil Mage?”
He gave a short laugh before he answered. “Look for the name of a mage who fought other mages. Some of these books go back a long ways, when dueling was allowed between mages. If I have a name, I might be able to find his grimoire. You also might note down any object that could be of use. Magical items are notoriously hard to find—even if they’re not the creation of some bard’s overactive imagination—and we don’t have the leisure time to go on a quest.”
She could go though the books methodically. Doubtless that was what Wolf was doing. But sometimes . . . She blew on her fingers and thought hard on how much a little luck right now would be of use. She didn’t pull more than a breath of magic for it—luck magic could backfire in unexpected ways. It was best to keep such things small. Then she walked to a random shelf and took out the first book that caught her eye. She ran her fingers lightly over the metallic binding of the book. Originally, it had been silver, but it had tarnished to a dull black.
She could read the title only because she once coaxed Ren into teaching her the words inscribed on the old wall mosaics in some of the older places in Sianim. Reluctantly, she put it away without opening it, knowing that it wouldn’t have anything of use. The people who used that language had disliked magic to such an extent that they burned the practitioners of it. They had been a trading people, and merchants in general were not overly fond of mages. She thought about the chubby merchant she’d seen in another cave and smiled; maybe merchants had good reason to dislike magic.
It took several more tries before she found a book that suited her and passed it by Wolf for inspection. He handed it back to her with a perfunctory nod and went back to his work.
This book was, in her estimation, about three hundred years old and told the history of a tribe of tinkers that used to roam the lands in great numbers. They were scarcer now and tended to keep to themselves. Whoever wrote the book she was reading still believed in the powers of the old gods, and he intermixed history and myth with a cynicism that she thoroughly enjoyed. Taking a piece of blank paper, she kept careful note of anything that might be potentially useful.
Her favorite was the story of the jealous chieftain whose wife was unfaithful. Frustrated, he visited the local hedgewitch, who gave him a fist-sized bronze statue of the demi-god Kinez the Faithful. When his wife kissed a man in its presence, it would come to life and kill the unlucky suitor. The chieftain had the statue placed in his wife’s wagon, and after several of her favorites died, she sinned no more. Or, noted the author of the book, at least she found another place to sin.