The Silver Mage by Katharine Kerr

silent and tried to smile at him. His mouth contorted into a painful twist.
    Two servants hurried over to help Gerontos drink from a cup of a yellow liquid. A third handed Rhodorix a cup of red wine, which he sipped, watching his brother’s pain ease with every swallow of the yellow drink. The healer himself considered Rhodorix, seemed to be about to speak, and then smiled, a little ruefully, as if perhaps remembering that Rhodorix wouldn’t understand a word he said. He went to the doorway and spoke to someone standing just outside. A woman’s voice answered him; then the woman herself strode into the chamber.
    She stood by the bed and set her hands on her hips to look Gerontos over while the healer talked on. Now and then she nodded as if agreeing with something he said. Tall, nearly as tall as Rhodorix, she wore her pale hair pulled back into a pair of braids. Under thin brows her eyes were the blue of river ice and deep-set in a face that most likely became lovely when she smiled. At the moment, frowning in thought as she considered Gerontos’ leg, she looked as grim as a druid at a sacrifice. Gerontos looked at Rhodorix and quirked an eyebrow. Once, during Vindex’s ill-fated rebellion, they’d seen a contingent of Belgae warriors, all of them as pale-haired and pale-eyed as this woman.
    “She must be a Belgae woman,” Rhodorix said.
    “Indeed,” Gerontos whispered. “Unless she’s from Germania.”
    Neither the woman nor the healer took any notice of their talk. She wore a long tunic, belted at the waist like the healer’s, pinned at one shoulder with a gold brooch in the shape of a bird with outstretched wings. Around her neck hung a cluster of what Rhodorix took to be charms on leather thongs. One of the Belgae wise women, he assumed—he’d heard about them back home in Gallia. Eventually she turned to him and spoke. He understood nothing. All he could do was shake his head and spread his hands to show confusion. Her eyes widened in surprise.
    The healer came over to him, made a questioning sort of face, and pointed to his ear.
    “I’m not deaf.” Rhodorix made a guess at the meaning. He pointed to his own ear and smiled, nodding. “I can hear you.”
    The healer seemed to understand. He, in turn, nodded his agreement, then spoke to the woman. They left the chamber together.
    “What was all that?” Gerontos said.
    “I don’t know for certain,” Rhodorix said. “But I’d guess they were expecting us to understand her talk. They were certainly surprised about somewhat.” He paused to sip from the cup. “This wine is very good.” He pointed at a servant, then at his brother.
    The fellow filled a second cup and brought it over. With Rhodorix’s help, Gerontos raised himself up enough to take a few sips. He sighed and lay back down.
    “Enough for now,” Gerontos whispered. “Go eat. I have to sleep.”
    The servants took themselves away. Rhodorix got up and returned to the table, but even though he ate, he was considering suicide. He could go outside to the courtyard, find a corner where no one would see him, and fall upon his sword. Or, if the guards would let him, he could climb one of the high towers and step off into death on the stones below. Death seemed the only honorable act left to him after his failure of the day, yet at the same time, how could he abandon his brother here among these strange folk?
    If only Galerinos were still with them, he could ask the young druid to cast omens or deliver some kind of opinion based on the holy laws, but Gallo was far away—safe, or so he hoped. He finished his wine, downed what Gerontos had left, then poured himself more. Lacking a holy man, he sought his answers in drink. After the fourth cupful, the room began dancing around him. Rhodorix lay down on the carpeted floor and slept.

    “ I don’t understand,” Nallatanadario said. “If they don’t belong to your people, who are they?”
    “I don’t know,” Hwilli said. “But they