Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock) by Susan Sizemore, Marguerite Krause

” Morb replied. “ Don ’ t move now. ” With that final admonition the wizard closed his eyes and vanished in a puff of greenish smoke.
    Pirse closed his eyes. A wizard. He ’ d fallen into the hands of a wizard. Wild coincidence to have met anyone. Except that he didn ’ t believe in coincidence. Not where magic was concerned. His steps must have been guided by the gods — the callous, capricious, useless gods. Since he was a boy he ’ d been appalled by his mother ’ s lack of belief. She, and the rest of Dherrica ’ s Shapers, refused their responsibility to parent a new generation of Dreamers. He had expected King Sene of Sitrine, who had made sure his brother and sister married Keepers according to tradition, to prosper and triumph over his neighbors. But were the gods just? No. Rhenlan gained in strength and prestige, not Sitrine. The gods did nothing.
    The cave smelled suddenly of mown grass and clover. A hand touched his forehead, too close to the tender skin of the knife gash there.
    “ Ow! ” He snarled and opened his eyes.
    Morb stood at his feet, holding a large leather bag. The hand which left Pirse ’ s forehead to gingerly lift aside the torn shoulder of his tunic belonged to a plump, pink-cheeked woman whose unbelted black robe and peach under tunic seemed stiffly formal next to Morb ’ s bare chest and black loincloth. She had hair the color of ripe oats, cut short like a child ’ s, and she clucked over him exactly as his nursemaid had done, long ago when his biggest fears were of thunderstorms and bee stings.
    “ There, there, don ’ t worry about a thing. You ’ re safe now. ” Her smile was a delicate curving of lips framed by dimples. “ I am Savyea. You haven ’ t been chasing dragons this far south, have you? ”
    If only it were so simple! “ No. ”
    “ Well, you ’ ve certainly made a mess of yourself. Water, please. ” She took her bag from Morb and set it on the ground next to Pirse. When she lifted the flap of the bag, a spicy, nose-tingling scent filled the air. The Greenmother brought out an earthenware mug, squat and red as a tomato, which she dipped into the large bowl of water Morb set beside her.
    “ Now, ” Savyea said, hands busily unfolding small cloth squares, each containing a different powder or leaf or seed. “ Help me heal you. Tell me what happened. ”
    Pirse turned his face away from her sharp, inquiring, black eyes. “ Some things don ’ t heal. ”
    Morb ’ s voice startled him. “ He grieves, ” the wizard explained.
    “ For your sister, poor boy? I understand. ”
    Before he could stop himself, Pirse corrected her. “ For my mother. ” After that he had no choice but to tell them the rest. It didn ’ t take long. Savyea seemed less interested in the ramifications of Dea ’ s murder than in hearing a precise account of when and where he had received his various injuries.
    He ’ d only had two engagements with Palle ’ s guards. One had come at dawn on the first day of the chase, which had resulted in an arrow graze on the left arm for him and a dead archer for Palle. The other had taken place a nineday and six later, in which he had gone sword and knife against four guards and come away with a gash on his forehead and his side sliced open from waist to breastbone.
    Days — two? three? — had passed since then. He felt more rational in the presence of the Dreamers than he had since he ’ d first fled Bronle. He could remember his initial impulse to seek blood debt against Hion, as well as his later, bitter realization that he would have to survive his uncle ’ s pursuit first. Neither of the Dreamers, however, expressed an opinion regarding guilt, fault, or consequences. Instead, they discussed insects. Morb knew which sorts lived in the valleys and swamps Pirse had traveled. Of those, Savyea knew which carried disease. Pirse marveled that they could be so knowledgeable about such petty details, yet completely naive about the