“Yes, I am, but I’m just learning the syllabary. I can write in Deverrian and Gel da’Thae, though.”

“You’ll pick up the Elvish script fast enough. The prince needs a scribe. The last one left his retinue to settle in the new town up north. Come with me.”

As Pol accompanied her through the camp, Dallandra noticed the other Westfolk doing their best not to stare at him, and he grimly kept his gaze fixed ahead. When they reached Dar’s tent, however, painted with red roses in memory of the Far West, the sight of the flowers made him smile. He reached out and touched one of the images.

“We have these at home,” he remarked, “in the seacoast villages. The legend runs that the People brought them from the old cities.”

“Do you?” Dallandra said. “So something of the Vale of Roses survived. That’s lovely.”

At Dallandra’s urging, Daralanteriel took Pol on as his new scribe. When he read the messages out, Dallandra heard what she’d been waiting for. Lady Solla had been safely delivered of a fine, healthy son. Gerran and his wife and heir would spend the winter with Tieryn Cadryc, then move out to the Melyn Valley with the spring.

“That’s splendid,” Dallandra remarked to Valandario later. “The Gold Falcon clan’s off to a good start.”

“So it is. Gerran will make a decent lord, I think.”

“If he doesn’t, Dar will take him in hand.”

Valandario nodded and pulled her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders. They were sitting in front of Dallandra’s tent and nursing a tiny fire against the chilly evening breeze. Around them swirled the normal sounds of a night camp: children crying, dogs barking, harp music, singing, and the occasional angry quarrel followed by soothing words.

“Summer’s almost gone,” Dallandra said. “Will you be going back to Mandra for the winter?”

“I don’t know,” Valandario said. “I’m too comfortable there.”

“What? There’s naught wrong with being warm and dry.”

“That’s not what I meant. Comfortable in my soul, with my gems and the books all around me. How long has it been since I truly worked dweomer?”

“When you evoked the spirit of Hanmara.”

“Oh, that was just a typical evocation. I wouldn’t call it a real accomplishment.”

“Well, your scrying system is certainly valuable.”

“I know, I know, but once Sidro gets it written up from her notes, anyone with the smallest dweomer gift will be able to use it. I mean real dweomer, something to stretch my mind and soul, something with risks, even.” Val paused to add another patty of dry horse dung to the campfire in front of them. “Ever since I approved Ebañy’s plan to go live in that tower, I’ve felt guilty. I was always badgering him to do more with his dweomer gifts, but I wasn’t using mine fully, either.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”