Although he’d not meant to scry, his longing brought him Sidro’s image, so clear that he knew it to be true vision and not a memory. She was kneeling beside a stream in the company of Westfolk women, laughing together, chatting as they washed clothes, their arms up to their elbows in soap and white linen. It suited her, this slave work, or so he tried to tell himself, with her plain face, so different from the elegant Dallandra’s, with those round little eyes and scruffy dark hair. She’d done him a favor, he decided, by leaving him. What would I want with her, anyway? An ugly mutt without any true power for sorcery!

Still, something seemed to have gotten into his eyes, dust from the camp, maybe, or smoke. Although he managed to stop himself from sobbing aloud, the traitor tears spilled and ran.

Toward noon Berwynna finally overcame her weariness enough to leave the refuge of the tent she shared with Uncle Mic. She emptied their chamber pot into the latrine ditch at the edge of the encampment, rinsed it downstream, then returned it to the tent. For a few moments she stood just outside the entrance and looked around her. Talking among themselves, the strangely long-eared Westfolk passed by. Many of them looked her way, smiled, or ducked their heads in acknowledgment, but she could understand none of their words, leaving her no choice but to smile in return, then stay where she was.

Eventually someone she recognized came up to her, Ebañy the gerthddyn. When he hailed her in Deverrian, she could have wept for the relief of hearing something she could understand.

“Good morrow, Uncle Ebañy,” Berwynna. “May I call you that?”

“By all means, though most people in Deverry call me Salamander.”

“I do like the fancy of calling you Uncle Salamander.”

“Then please do so.” He made her a bow. “My full name is Ebañy Salamonderiel tran Devaberiel, but I’m your uncle, sure enough.”

“My father’s brother. Right?”

“Right again, though we had different mothers. But can I turn myself into a dragon? Alas, I cannot.”

“Mayhap that be just as well. No doubt one dragon be more than enough for a family.”

“You have my heartfelt agreement on that. I can, however, turn myself into a magpie.” The beginnings of a smile twitched at his mouth.

“Be you teasing me?” Berwynna crossed her arms over her chest.

“Not in the least.”

“Ah, then you be like Laz and the raven. A mazrak.”

“Just so.” Yet he looked disappointed, as if perhaps he’d expected her to be shocked or amazed.

“That be a wonderful thing, truly,” Berwynna went on. “Better than being stuck, like, in one shape or another, such as that sorcerer did to my da. Or be it so that a man can get himself trapped in some other form, all by himself, I do mean?”

“He can, indeed, and frankly, I worry about Laz. Sidro’s mentioned that he often flies for days at a time.”