The gems glowed with the same violet light that Glory remembered from the crystal that had topped Belegir's staff.
"Where do those come from?" she asked Belegir.
The pink mage looked uncomfortable, as if she'd touched on a sensitive issue. "Erchane sends them at our need."
"Hm." Another conversational dead end. "So what else do they do?" She had a vague idea in the back of her mind that this stuff might prove useful later on—but only if she knew what it did.
"These are for Calling only. There are others for other purposes—to tell the weather, to find water, to light a fire. They are the masterworks of generations of mages, all stored up against a time of great need."
Like now. 
"Don't any of them do anything useful?"
"All these things are useful," Belegir said in surprise. "Why would someone take Erchane's gifts to make that which was not useful?"
Glory sighed. "But maybe there are some that would be more useful right now. Like something that could fling a lightning bolt, say."
Belegir regarded her with a mixture of distaste and admiration. "But such things would be dangerous. Their use could lead to destruction and war."
"Like you don't have that going on now," Glory muttered under her breath. She glanced sideways at the other two mages, but each seemed to be rapt in concentration on their crystals. "Oh, well. Just a thought."
"Let us go back," Belegir urged. "Ivradan will have made all ready for our journey. And we must arrive ere night falls."
* * *
Ivradan was waiting for them when they returned. Two dogs sat at his feet, pink tongues lolling happily. He had three ponies with him. Two were bridled and had thick fleece saddle-pads (Glory was relieved to see) on their backs. The third carried a wooden packsaddle, its contents an anonymous canvas-wrapped bundle, but had no bridle or leading-rein.
"These are Felba and Fimlas," Ivradan said, indicating the two riding horses. "They are brothers, and will wish to stay together. Marchiel will carry your supplies, and Kurfan will keep him honest." The dog looked up at the sound of his name. "You need carry nothing, Slayer, while Marchiel is here to do it for you."
He reached for her tote-bag, hefted it for weight, and expertly lashed it to the packhorse's load with plaited leather ropes. Glory realized she was still clutching