“Welcome,” Laz called out. He spoke surprisingly good Deverrian. “Or perhaps I should say farewell. Alas, fair lady, I feel the need to take leave of you and yours, before the rest of my men decide they’d rather join you than stay with me.”

“Well, I can understand that,” Dallandra said. “It’s too bad, though. I was going to offer to trade you dweomer lore in return for some information.”

“Oh?” Laz glanced away, entirely too casually. “What kind of lore?”

“What are you most interested in?”

“At the moment, the burning questions in my mind concern those wretched crystals.” He looked at her again. “Who, by the way, was Evandar?”

“I can tell you a great deal about Evandar. The black crystal, it’s largely a mystery to me, though I do know somewhat that might interest you.” She paused to glance around them, saw some of his men standing nearby, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You owned it in a former life. In fact, I know somewhat about two of your former lives.” She raised her voice to a normal level. “It won’t make pleasant hearing, though, so no doubt you’re wise to leave now.”

Laz’s eyes went wide, and he whistled under his breath. He gaped at her, as well and truly hooked as a caught trout, gaping at the end of a fisherman’s line. His horse stamped and tossed its head at the sudden slacking of its reins. At last Laz sighed and turned away to speak to his men in the Gel da’Thae language. Some of them shrugged, some of them raised eyebrows, others glanced skyward in disgust, but they all stopped work on striking the camp and began, instead, to restore it.

“We need to find a place to talk,” Laz said to Dallandra. “We can meet between the camps.”

“Very well. You’re welcome in our camp, for that matter. The Westfolk will never eavesdrop on a Wise One.”

“I will not set foot over there.” Laz’s voice turned hard. “I see no reason to let Pir gloat over me.”

“Oh, come now, you know Pir better than I do! Would he truly gloat?”

“I never thought he’d steal my woman, either.” Laz hesitated, then shrugged. “That’s unfair of me. No one stole her. She’s not a horse.” Laz seemed to be choking back either tears or anger, but he arranged a brittle smile.

He’s trying, Dallandra thought. Desperately trying to be fair, to do the right thing. She regretted her slip, mentioning that she had information about two of his past lives. Discussing Lord Tren was doubtless safe enough, but Alastyr? She found herself loathe to speak of dark dweomer. What if it awakened Laz’s memories and, worse yet, his desire to use it? Worst of all, what if he already remembered and was hoping to get more information? Sidro had often warned her that Laz lied as cheerfully as most men jest.