A woman’s voice, firm and commanding—Rocca, though he couldn’t understand the words. The door opened again.
“I’ve brought you somewhat,” she said. “To cheer your heart this night of waiting.”
“My thanks, unworthy wretch that I am.”
She handed him a miniature quiver holding four tiny arrows, each about three inches long, each dyed a different color. “This be a prayer token. The black arrow does stand for Vandar’s world, sunk in its depravity. The red be the blood that will wash and redeem it, the white the purity of the cleansed world, and the gold—” Here Rocca paused for a smile, “The gold it does stand for the life we all will share in Alshandra’s kingdom.”
Salamander clutched it over his heart with what he hoped was a suitably pious expression. “You’ve given me great cheer indeed. Again I thank you.”
Rocca’s smile froze into something close to tears, and she turned quickly away. “I’d best be getting myself to the council.”
Rocca hurried out, and the guards once more slammed the door. He could tell by the rattle of the chain and a thump of iron hitting wood that they had barred and tied it. He waited until their footsteps had gone down the stairs, then went to the window and looked out onto a straight drop far down. Below, gilded by the last of the afternoon light, lay cut blocks of granite, piled this way and that. A man who fell from the window would land on chiseled edges, not merely flat stone.
From his perch he could also see most of the fort spread out below and the land beyond as well. He spent some time carefully memorizing what he saw, noting details here and there, such as the postern gate and a half-finished course of stone running along the cliff top. Apparently, they planned an outer fortification that would enclose the entire citadel. Inside, he saw a number of water wells, and here and there deep pits lined with stone—food storage, perhaps? It seemed that the Horsekin were well aware that they might have to stand a long siege, but whom, he wondered, did they fear? Vandar’s spawn, perhaps, or perhaps the Gel da’Thae or even another sect or tribe of Horsekin. More’s the pity, he thought, that you won’t be staying long enough to find out.
By then the sunset was turning the scattered clouds into streaks of flame against the sky. Salamander used them as a focus and contacted Dallandra. When he could see her face and the help and safety it represented, his thoughts ran away from him in a sudden spate of words and half-voiced feelings.
“Don’t babble at me!” Dallandra said. “What’s so wrong?”
“My apologies, and truly, it’s babbling that got me into this, a bitter lesson I fear for one so enamored of his own voice as I am. I’ve reached the new Horsekin settlement, and as we feared, it’s a fortress, all right, still a-building, but a dun nonetheless. It looks to me like it’s been planned to stand long sieges, too. No wonder they didn’t want any farmers claiming land out here.”
“By the Black Sun herself!” Dalla’s image briefly wavered. “Fearful, indeed! But at least you’ll be able to describe it to Cal and the gwerbret, too, for that matter. I can’t imagine that Ridvar will refuse to ask for the king’s aid now.”
“Nah, nah, nah, O, mistress of mighty magicks! Not so fast. Rocca brought me here, and we were met by the high priestess herself. All seemed to be going well. Her holiness was downright welcoming in fact, but then something rather awkward happened. I seem to have aroused the jealousy of a fledgling priestess. She insisted on seeing if I could pass a test. They have a silver dagger. I don’t know how or why they have it, but they do.”
“Did it have a little wyvern on the blade?”
“Yes, actually. How—”
“I know whose it is. I saw it in an omen-dream, but never mind that now.” In her image Dallandra’s face seemed to have turned a dull fearful gray. “I take it they made you touch the thing, and it showed you up—”
“As Vandar’s spawn. Exactly. Now, all is not yet lost. The head priestess here seems like a truly pious sort, and she’s convened a council to decide my fate. I’ve managed to convince them I didn’t know I had elven blood, you see. I spun an elaborate tale of being a bastard who’d never known his father.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad you’re so good at lying.”
“Thank you—I suppose. But in the end I managed to convince them to lock me up at the top of a high tower.”
“Did you?” The color returned to Dalla’s face. “Well, then, that gives me hope! But be careful, no matter what happens.”
“Fear not! You’re learning to appreciate mendacity, whilst I’m beginning to value caution, canniness, circumspection, and all its kin. However that may be, I shan’t die before sunset tomorrow, no matter how the council votes.”
“That will give you a little time, yes. Well, tell me, will you, as soon as you know the verdict? I’m going to go talk with Cal and the prince.”
Once Dallandra broke off contact, Salamander sat down in a corner and watched the sunset sky first flame, then fade. He wondered how long the council would debate—not long, he’d wager. Since he was a stranger with only Rocca to argue in his favor, they’d doubtless decide quickly to kill him.
Just as the hazy twilight was giving way to night and the wheel of stars shone out, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He scrambled up, his heart pounding, and took a few steps toward the door. It opened to reveal an elderly human slave, carrying a basket over one arm, and two armed Horsekin guards, one holding a candle lantern.
“Food,” the servant said. “And water.”
He set the basket down, watching Salamander all the while, then backed out of the room as if he were afraid that the prisoner would spring upon him like a beast. The locks clanged shut again, and Salamander heard them all clattering down the stairs. He picked up the basket and peered in—half a loaf of fresh warm bread, a honeycomb in a twist of leaf, some slices of cold meat, and a leather bottle of water. When he took out the bread, he found beneath it a metal plate, heavily embossed. Running his fingers over it in the dark told him little about the design—some flowers, a circle of what was most likely writing.
“Decent of them,” he muttered, “and their doom.” He settled down to eat.
For much of the evening he slept, gathering strength. Toward midnight another visitor came up the stairs, this one treading so lightly that at first Salamander was unsure if someone were coming or not. Then a hand rattled the chain.
“Evan?” It was Rocca’s voice, whispering, trembling in grief. “Evan, be you awake?”
“I am.” He crossed to the door and spoke quietly. “I take it the council goes badly.”
“It does, not that my heart be void of hope, but only Lakanza does seem to care about the justice of the thing. The others—I do think that Sidro, she did poison their minds or some such.”
“They may just be afraid. I can’t blame them.”
“That be so noble of you!” Her voice caught, as if she choked back tears. “I did come to beg your forgiveness once again.”
“And you have it, as you always shall. Here, if I didn’t even realize that I’m tainted Vandar’s spawn, how could you have known?”
“True-spoken.” But she sounded no less miserable. “The council, they did end the debate for the night, but tomorrow they meet again after morning prayers.”
“I see. Tell me somewhat, if it’s safe for you to linger a moment. Sidro—you said she’d been cast off by a man?”
“Just that. Sidro were ill treated by a man she loved, left deserted and alone after her family did scorn her and force her to leave their home. She was with child, you see. Lakanza did offer her shelter at our old shrine. Sidro’s child did die in her arms not two days after it were born. In penance she did vow to serve our goddess all her life.”
“That’s a sad thing, then.” Salamander decided that one more lie on top of all the others wouldn’t ruin his wyrd forever. “I’ll pray that I may forgive her, too.”
“She deserves far less than that, but it does speak well of you.”
Once again Rocca’s voice sounded full of tears. “I’d best be gone.”
Before he could say anything more, he heard her turn away, and her footsteps hurried down the stairs.
The morning, of course, would bring light, and Salamander needed darkness if he were to escape. He went to the window and looked up, using the stars as a focus, but try as he might, he couldn’t reach Dallandra’s mind. He did get a confused impression of her feelings, that she was mildly angry at something, a little frightened as well, but mostly methodical and intent upon some task. It occurred to him that most likely someone in camp had injured themselves in an accident, and as the alar’s healer, she’d been called out of a sound sleep. He decided against waiting until he could talk with her. The sooner he escaped from Zakh Gral, the better.
First Salamander stripped off his clothing, then considered what he could carry—not much and still get clean away. He made a sack out of his brigga by tying the legs together. Into it he put the quiver of miniature arrows, a bit of building stone he found upon the floor, and the plate his dinner had arrived upon. His boots—he weighed them in his hand—heavy, but without them he wouldn’t get far. He stuffed them in, then cinched the sack closed with his belt. He set it carefully on the corner of the windowsill.
And what would happen to Rocca when the guards found him gone? Would the razkanir blame her? If they did, she would die a very slow death at their hands. He had no doubt about that. How could he—he grinned at a sudden idea. Among the old ashes on the dead hearth, he found a lump of charcoal. The smooth wall of the chamber served him for parchment. Still grinning, he began to write in careful letters. (In the Deverry language his words rhymed, unlike those below.)
“Death may threaten but never claim me
For Alshandra claimed me for her own
Long years ago. To Her now I cry aloud
To save or slay me as she thinks best.
What light do I see here my dark prison?”
At this point he dropped the formal rhyme and meter and scrawled his letters. “She comes! May I—” He broke the word off, then let the charcoal drop onto the floor.
“There,” he muttered. “We’ll see how that takes them! Or wait—they think dweomer light comes from the goddess.” He raised both hands above his head and called upon the Wildfolk of Aethyr. In a shimmering silver mass they appeared, dodging this way and that. “Lords of Aethyr!” Salamander whispered. “I beg and beseech you! Fill this room with light long past my leaving of it.”
The silver mass shattered. A hundred separate glitters of light rushed to the walls, to the ceiling, gathered and spread until the chamber filled with glow brighter than ten full moons.
“My thanks, most sincerely! O Great Lords of Aethyr, I beseech thee, let this light shine until dawn!”
From somewhere in his mind too deep for words a feeling rose—a tingling sensation all over his body, a raising of the hair on the back of his neck. The Lords had agreed.
The most difficult dweomer working of all lay ahead. Salamander went to the window and laid his hands on the sill beside the improvised sack. As he stared up at the stars, he felt power gather. Slowly he invoked more, felt it flow through him until his body became a mere channel, a thin shell, surrounding the power coursing through it. In his mind, he formulated the image of a black-and-white magpie, then sent the picture forward through his eyes until it seemed to perch on the windowsill between his hands. With a wrench of will, he transferred his consciousness over to the bird form until it seemed that he looked out of the small yellow eyes.
Now came the crux. He drew more and more of the life substance from the body standing behind his consciousness into the bird form until the magpie seemed solid and the man’s body only an illusion. Since he’d not worked this spell in over forty years, he had to fight for concentration. One slip now meant death. He called on the holy names of the gods, called on Alshandra, too, in a moment of near-hysterical drollery, and kept on sucking more and more of the etheric substance into his new body. At last, as he uttered one last mighty Name, a sound like thunder burst behind his eyes, and the etheric substance dragged the physical with it. Salamander the man was gone from the chamber. A magpie—an abnormally huge magpie—perched on the windowsill.
With a caw of triumph, Salamander hopped onto the improvised sack and sank his claws into the cloth. He sprang into the air and flew, flapping in wide circles over the fort far below. On his last pass by the tower, he saw the window of his former prison still glowing with silver light. Out in the ward tiny figures of Horsekin scurried around, heading for the tower. Their frantic voices drifted up to him, but he could understand nothing of what they were shouting to one another.
There’s nothing like a good miracle, Salamander thought, to keep the holy-minded occupied. Fighting the wind currents, he headed south.
Salamander had guessed right about Dallandra’s distracted mood. Two of Cal’s archers had been courting the same young woman, and eventually they’d come to blows. Dallandra had just fallen asleep in the grass near her tent when Calonderiel came running to wake her. She sat up and listened to his report in sullen annoyance.
“Why do you need me?” she said finally. “The bruises—”
“It’s worse than bruises,” Cal said. “One of them drew his knife.”
Hurriedly, Dallandra got to her feet. “I need to get my tools from the tent,” she said. “How bad is the cut?”
“More than one. The other drew his, too.”
“Of course. Why did I ever think otherwise?”
While she was stitching up the worst of the slashes, Dalla was aware of Salamander trying to reach her, but with the blood still flowing down her patient’s arm, she could spare the gerthddyn none of her concentration. After both love-sick warriors were stitched, dosed with herbs, and properly berated, Dallandra did try to contact Salamander, but this time it was his mind that refused to respond. She received a general impression of rushing wind and a view of night-dark trees that rose and fell in a steady rhythm. By the Dark Sun! she thought. He must be flying.
All she could do was wait for him to regain his proper body.
As the night wore on, Salamander found it harder and harder to stay in the air. His wings ached, and he took to gliding upon air currents whenever he could. His legs hurt as well; his talons in bird-form were at root his feet and toes, parts of the body that were normally spared such work as carrying heavy sacks. Still, he forced himself onward. He could think of two possible outcomes if the Horsekin caught him. In one, Rocca would prevail upon them to kill him quickly. In the other, the pains he was feeling at the moment would seem like pleasure compared to what they’d do to him.
Below him the scrubby tableland kept dropping down, until at last he saw only a roll of low hills and beyond, grassland. A river, silver in the gray dawn light, flowed steadily south between tree-lined banks. He circled an old, drooping willow, then flapped down through its curtain of fine twigs and leaves; he let the sack fall to the ground below and settled on a heavy branch to roost. He was greeted with a rattling call of rage from another magpie, who ducked his head low, spread his wings, and danced a threat close to the tree trunk.
“Aren’t you the hospitable sort?” Salamander’s voice came out as a croaking rasping parody of human speech.
The sound seemed to make the magpie notice just how large his sudden neighbor was. With a squawk of sheer terror, the real bird flew off screeching. Enough of Salamander’s current nature was magpie for him to be tempted to go through the other’s nest and steal whatever trinkets it had hidden there, but he put the temptation firmly out of his mind. That he’d even thought it signaled a dangerous exhaustion. With a flap of his aching wings, he settled to the ground next to the sack.
For some little while he rested among the rasping blades of marsh grass, but his wings trailed uselessly, and he needed feet more than claws. He reversed the dweomer, imaging his own body in his mind and sending the image out to apparent solidity in front of hi
m. In spite of his ever-present fear of being trapped in bird-form, his real body built up fast, sucking the etheric substance back into it of its own will. Salamander heard a sudden click, a percussive hiss; then he was sitting dazed and naked on the hummock of grass, and there was nothing left of the magpie but claw marks in damp ground.
Just a few feet away the rising sun rippled and glinted in flecks like fire on the river. He dumped the contents of his sack, turned the sack back into brigga, and put them on before limping to the riverside on cramped feet. Now for Rocca, he thought. I’ll never forgive myself if she’s come to harm.
He knelt with a grunt of exhaustion. When he thought of Rocca, the vision built up on the sun-touched water. It seemed that he was hovering some twenty feet above the altar of the Outer Shrine. Rocca stood in front of it, her arms outstretched, her face glowing with such joy that he knew she believed in his artificial miracle. She was wearing his filthy, sweat-stained shirt around her shoulders like a cloak. On the ground Sidro knelt, her raven-dark head tossed back, her arms crossed over her chest. Behind her stood the Horsekin priestesses. Every now and then one of them gave Sidro a random sort of kick as Rocca continued her prayers.
Salamander focused the vision down until he could see Sidro more clearly. He was expecting her to be humiliated and terrified, but the look on her face and the trembling of her shoulders spoke of sheer cold rage. Watching her, Salamander felt oddly frightened. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She’s miles away, and she doesn’t even have dweomer. Yet suddenly he wasn’t so sure of that. What had she seen that prompted her to call him Vandar’s spawn? Although anyone who knew the Westfolk well could have picked up traces of his mixed blood, still he looked far more human than elven. Yet Sidro had challenged him with perfect confidence. He broke the vision, half-fearing she would realize that he was watching her.
Besides, he needed to contact Dallandra. On the fiery surface of the water, Dalla’s image built up quickly, wavered, then steadied.
The Gold Falcon Page 27