At that he looked up again.

“Now, I’m a healer, certainly,” Dallandra continued, “but it’s only a craft for me. You’re hoping to try somewhat new.”

“Hoping is about right. I don’t know if I can or not.”

“No more do I, but I’ll wager you’ll succeed. At this stage you’ve got to learn both crafts down to the last jot.”

“I know that now.” Neb’s voice rang with sincerity. “And I promise you that I’ll gather every scrap of knowledge that I possibly can.”

“Good! That’s all anyone can ask of you. Now we’d both best clean up. I’ve got gore all over my hands, and your tunic is a fearsome sight.”

Dallandra had just finished washing her bloodstained hands in a bucket of water when one of the Cerr Cawnen men walked over, another beefy blond with narrow blue eyes, a common type among the Rhiddaer men, who were descended from the northern tribes of “Old Ones,” as the original inhabitants of the Deverrian lands used to be known. This particular fellow introduced himself as Richt, the caravan master.

“You do have all my thanks, Wise One,” he said, “for the aid you and your people do give me and my men. I would gift you with somewhat of dwarven work. It be a trinket I did trade for in Lin Serr.” From the pocket of his brigga he brought out a leather pouch.

“I don’t need any payment, truly,” Dallandra began, then stopped when he shook a pendant out of the pouch onto his broad palm. “That’s very beautiful.”

“As you are, and I would beg you to take it.”

The pendant hung by a loop from a fine silver chain. Two silver dragons twined around a circle of gems, set in silver. The jeweler had arranged three petal-shaped slices of moonstone and three of turquoise around a central sapphire.

“Are you sure you want to part with this?” Dallandra said.

“I be sure that I wish you to have it.” Richt smiled, a little shyly.

“Then you have my profound thanks.”

When Dallandra held out her hand, he passed the pendant over, then bobbed his head in respect and walked away. The more she studied the pendant, the happier she was that she’d accepted the gift. Rarely did she like jewelry enough to wear any of it, but this particular piece made her think of the moon and its magical tides. A bevy of sprites materialized in the air and hovered close to look at it. She could hear their little cries of delight, a sound much like the rustling of fine silks.

“Who gave you that?” a normal elven voice said.

Dallandra looked up to see Calonderiel watching her with his arms crossed over his chest.

“The caravan master,” she said. “In thanks for tending his wounded men. He told me it’s dwarven work.”