“When we told him you were on your way, Ridvar just assumed that you’d received his invitation,” Maelaber said. “He sent a herald with an escort, but they must have missed us.”
“I hope they’re not still wandering around the grasslands,” Prince Daralanteriel said. “What did you think of Cengarn, by the way?”
“It’s a splendid sort of place from the outside, but I didn’t think much of it once we got through the gates. Ye gods, the stink! Maybe my father’s right about my mother’s folk.”
“Only when it comes to cleanliness,” Daralanteriel tried to sound stern, but he was grinning. “Let’s not judge others too harshly.”
“It’s a good thing you sent off messengers.” Salamander joined the conversation. “If we’d come blundering in without even realizing that the gwerbret’s getting married—”
“Yes, it would have been awkward, to say the least.” Daralanteriel finished the thought for him. “Well, fortunately we’ve brought along the perfect horse for a wedding present, that gold gelding I’ve been training. I can decorate his halter with wildflowers, and he’ll look festive enough.”
“A splendid gift, yes. Better than our gwerbret deserves.”
“I’d better tend my horse,” Maelaber said.
“Do that,” Dar said. “Because on the morrow I’m sending you back to the grass with messages and orders to find that herald and his escort. They can’t be allowed to wander around out there until they starve.”
The prince’s retinue found a good place to camp that afternoon, a grassy meadow next to a shallow stream. In the middle of this clearing stood a stone stele that marked the border ’twixt the Westlands and Arcodd province. The pillar bore inscriptions in both Deverrian and Elvish, not that many people in those days could have read either one. To compensate, on the east-facing side the stonecutters had carved the blazing sun device of the gwerbrets of Cengarn, while on the west, a rose under an arch of seven stars indicated Dar’s princedom.
At sunset Salamander went down to the stream to scry for Rocca. Dallandra came along, and together they knelt by the water, tinged a flickering gold as it caught the last of the sunlight. He was about to focus his mind on the distant fortress when he became aware of an odd sensation, a prickling of hair on his neck, a cold stripe down his spine. He sat back on his heels and let the sensation gather.
“What’s wrong?” Dallandra said. “You look startled.”
“I most definitely am that, and discomfited as well. Someone’s scrying me out, I think. It’s like the touch of a clammy hand. As soon as I thought of the fort, it stroked me.”
Dallandra got up and stood behind him. He could hear her murmur a brief invocation. The sensation of being watched vanished.
“Gone now,” he said. “My thanks.”
“Most welcome.” She sat down next to him. “I think you’d best scry for the fort later. Maybe we can catch this person off-guard.”
“I’ve suddenly discovered a well of patience in my heart.”
“Who, though? None of those people should have dweomer, from what you told me.”
“Quite so. Any Horsekin who did would have been slaughtered long ago. I suppose someone who was determined, someone with a strong gift for it, could hide it, if—Sidro.”
“Is Sidro the one who’s Rocca’s enemy?”
“The very. There was something suspicious about her, the way she guessed my mixed blood, and the way she was so sure that the wyvern dagger would work its little miracle.”
“I wish there was some way I could get a look at this woman.”
“Why? She’s not a pleasant sight.”
“What is she? A crone?”
“Well, no. It’s not that she’s ugly, but there was something about her that creeped my flesh. Her eyes, and the way she cocked her head at times—it made me think of a lizard or perhaps, if I wanted to be kind, which I don’t, a bird of some sort.”
“Didn’t you say she had glossy black hair?”
“Yes. Very Eldidd-looking, with the bluish highlights and all.”
“Like a raven’s feathers?” Dallandra thought for a moment. “The lore says that if a person’s been a shape-changer in a former life, they may resemble their animal form when they’re reborn.”
“By the Dark Sun herself! You told me about that other priestess—Raena, isn’t it?”
“That was her name, all right.”
“She’s now known as the Holy Witness Raena. The dagger and those other trinkets in the shrine were supposedly hers.”
“I knew that she’d gotten her claws on the wyvern dagger, but I didn’t realize she had the bone whistle, too.” Dallandra thought for a long moment. “Well, Sidro might be Raena reborn, though then again, maybe not. Curse it all, I won’t be able to tell until I get a good look at—” Dalla stopped speaking and raised a shaking hand to her suddenly pale face.
Salamander rose to his knees and leaned toward her, ready to catch her if she should fall into trance, but she waved him away.
“I’m all right now,” Dalla said. “I just felt a frost omen.”
“So I thought. Omen of what?”
“Danger, of course.” She paused to take a deep breath before she went on. “That kind of cold is always a warning of something ghastly.”
“We should raise a dweomer shield over the camp, then.”
“You’re right, but I’ll do the working by myself. I don’t want you putting any more strain on your mind.” Dalla paused to look at the sky. “It’s twilight now, so the astral tides will settle down soon.”
Salamander went back to the camp. He saw that the prince, his scribe, and the banadar were sitting in front of the prince’s tent. Some of the other men were still eating, though most had gone out to the meadow to bring the tethered horses in closer to the tents. They were hobbling them as well, just in case one of the dragons should fly over. The mere scent of wyrm would panic any herd, to say naught of the sight of them.
For a moment or two Salamander stood uncertainly in front of the tent he was sharing with Meranaldar and some of the archers. He needed to talk with Calonderiel about a delicate matter, a difficult proposition in the best of times, even though the banadar’s affair with Dallandra had sweetened his general outlook on life. He decided to take the coward’s way out and wait for Dallandra to join them.
The sky, in the west still a pale bluish gray, was turning as soft as velvet in the last of the twilight. Slowly it darkened; a scatter of stars came out on the eastern horizon, while to the west the last gold of sunset faded. Down on the earth, out beyond the horse herd, a flash of blue fire leaped up from the ground. It hovered in the air, then spread out, racing around the camp deosil to form a wall of blue flames. They grew taller, stronger, raced upward until they met at a center point high above the camp. At the cardinal points glowing gold sigils sprang into existence, the seals of the Elemental Kings, and another appeared directly above at the center point, the sigil of Aethyr. Dallandra had finished the astral shield.
Salamander realized that he’d opened his etheric sight without consciously choosing to do so, a very bad sign of that strain Dallandra had mentioned. He closed it down, then strolled over to meet her as she came back to camp. She strode along so purposefully that he could still see the gleaming sword of astral light in her warrior’s hand, but when she smiled at him, that small illusion vanished.
“Let’s sit down,” she said. “I’m tired.”
They joined the others in front of the prince’s tent. Salamander sat down next to Meranaldar, while Dallandra took her place next to Calonderiel. For a brief while they all discussed the road ahead, but eventually Salamander steeled his nerve and caught Cal’s attention.
“I’ve a favor to ask you, banadar,” Salamander said. “When we lay our news before the gwerbret, I don’t want you to mention Lord Honelg. The gwerbret and the priests between them will slaughter him and his men, and maybe even his womenfolk, for all I know.”
“So?” Cal said.
“That’s what he deserves. He’d slaughter the lot of us if he could, wouldn’t he?” He paused to spit into the small campfire. “Vandar’s spawn!”
“That’s true.” Dallandra intervened, laying a hand on Cal’s arm. “But if we betray him to the priests, won’t his kin spread the word? Then the faithful will hate Vandar’s spawn even more.”
“Maybe,” Cal said. “But I don’t see how anyone could hate us more than they already do.”
“Well, you might be right, but it would be good to have the chance to show them how wrong they are.”
“You’ve got the best heart in the world.” Cal sighed in mock admiration. “Unfortunately, they don’t match you in that regard.”
“Well, surely,” Meranaldar joined in, “this sort of decision should be the prince’s.”
Cal turned his head and looked at the scribe—merely looked with eyes as cold and clear as ice on a winter stream. Meranaldar flinched.
“The banadar’s quite capable of handling this matter on his own,” Daralanteriel said. “As the old saying goes, too many fletchers crumple the feathers.”
“Thank you, Dar.” Cal turned to Salamander. “And what are you going to tell the gwerbret when he asks how you found the fortress? You just happened to meet a priestess on the road—that’s not going to sound very convincing.”
“Well, um, you’re right.” Salamander pulled a long face. “But I’ll think of something.”
“One of your lies, you mean.”
“Honelg fed me at his table and treated me as an honored guest. I can’t betray him.”
“Yes, you can.” Calonderiel crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. “I respect the law of hospitality as much as anyone in the Westlands, but this is no ordinary time. Hasn’t it occurred to you that our survival’s at stake here?”
“Of course it has, but—”
“There isn’t any ’but’ about it. I know you’re half a Roundear, but think, you chattering dimwit!”
Salamander flushed scarlet and laid a hand on his dagger’s hilt. Dallandra rose to her knees.
“Enough!” she barked. “Cal, that Roundear remark was quite uncalled for! Tact has never been one of your gifts, has it?”
“Tact? What good is tact?” Calonderiel said. “I’ve tried that on people, and they still don’t do what I want.”
Prince Dar burst out laughing, and in a moment Salamander joined him, simply because the remark was so true to the banadar’s nature. Calonderiel scowled impartially back and forth between them. Dallandra sat back down; she seemed to be suppressing a grin.
“By the Dark Sun herself,” Salamander said when he’d caught his breath, “you are a marvel, banadar.”
“I suppose I deserved that,” Cal said with some asperity. “But listen. You’ve already betrayed Honelg, haven’t you? You sat there at his table in his great hall and let the lies fall as thick as flakes of winter snow. So why are you having scruples now?”
Salamander’s leftover laughter died. He opened his mouth for a retort, then realized that he had none. It’s not Honelg, it’s Rocca, he told himself. She’s the one you’re trying to protect, but she won’t be in his dun when the army arrives.
“You’re right, aren’t you?” Salamander said. “I shall tell the gwerbret everything.”
“Besides—” Cal stopped in midsentence. “Oh. You’re agreeing with me.”
“Yes, O Banadar Most Puissant. No more diatribes needed.”
That night Salamander dreamed that Sidro was stalking him with the silver dagger in one hand and the obsidian pyramid in the other. He woke to a sense of profound relief that the dream had been only that. In the tent the other men were still asleep, and he gathered his clothes and boots and went outside to dress to avoid waking them. Dawn was just silvering the eastern sky. When he glanced around, he saw Dallandra, kneeling beside the stream and gazing into the water. He walked over and joined her.
“Scrying?” he said.
“Yes, actually.” Dallandra sat back on her heels and turned to look at him. “I felt a presence last night, sniffing around the astral dome.”
“Ah. I wondered about that. I did dream of dear little Sidro, but I suspect it was but an ordinary dream, dancing to the harp of a troubled heart.”
“I hope you’re right. Although—” She frowned down at the water again. “If it wasn’t her, who was it?”
“That’s an unpleasant question, but, alas, also pertinent, fitting, and germane.”
“I have the awful feeling that we’re going to find out soon enough.”
“And we won’t like the answer?”
“I’d bet high on it. Oh, well, let’s go get some breakfast. I don’t see any reason to renew the seals now. The tides are still turbulent, and we’ll be leaving soon anyway.”
It was just past noon when the prince’s party came to Cengarn’s river. Through the trees shading the banks, Salamander saw white stones out in shallow water to mark the ford. Dallandra urged her horse up beside Salamander’s.
“This is where Jill died.” Dalla pointed at the ford. “The river ran much deeper that year. There’d been more rain, I suppose. At any rate, the etheric veil destroyed her body of light—and Alshandra’s, too, of course.”
“I see.” Salamander felt his throat tighten. He wiped away a scatter of tears on his shirt sleeve. “My apologies. Hearing the story always grieves me.”
“Me, too, but I’m looking forward to meeting Branna. She won’t be the same, of course, and I wonder if she’ll remember me.”
“Eventually she will.”
“Yes, that’s true. We became so close, working dweomer together, trying to save Cengarn. I suppose in a way we were like a couple of soldiers in a war. When she died—” Dallandra’s voice faltered. “Well, it was hard on all of us there at the time.”
With the prince in the lead, the Westfolk horses splashed across the ford. Once they were free of the trees on the far bank, Salamander could see the familiar cliffs of Cengarn, looming far above them. The meadow below the south gate held a surprise, however—a large canvas pavilion stood on the grass, and some thirty horses grazed at tether. Deverry men were standing or sitting on the grass near the pavilion. The prince called for the halt and rose in his stirrups to survey the situation. Dallandra shuddered; her face had gone a little pale.
“What’s wrong?” Salamander said.
“Sorry.” Dalla managed to smile. “I was just remembering the siege. The Horsekin had tents set up all around here.”
“This one doubtless springs from an overflow of wedding guests,” Salamander said. “A happier occasion all round.”
“One should hope it’s happier!” Daralanteriel reined his horse up next to Dallandra’s. “Now, I wonder. Should we just set our tents up out here rather than dragging everything up to the dun?”
“I don’t know.” Dalla sounded doubtful. “I’m always so afraid of slighting the Deverry lords. They care so much about honor and courtesy. Maybe we should wait to be told.”
With a shout of greeting, Gerran came striding over, his russet hair gleaming in the sunlight. He touched the prince’s stirrup to acknowledge Dar’s rank, then turned to Salamander.
“It gladdens my heart to see you alive,” Gerran said. “We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.”
“A great many things, few of them good,” Salamander said, grinning. “It’s a very long tale, and I’d best not launch into it now.”
“Fair enough.”
“Let me introduce you,” Salamander went on. “My prince, Daralanteriel, our banadar, Calonderiel, and our dweo—I mean, councillor Dallandra, this is Gerran, captain of Tieryn Cadryc’s warband, otherwise known as the Falcon.”
Gerran bowed to each as they were named. At Gerran’s nickname, Calonderiel’s eyebrows arched in surprise. The others acknowledged the captain with polite murmurs.
Gerran turned back to the prince. “Your Highness, the gwerbret’s servitors were wondering if you’d pre
fer to set up your tents out here rather than in the dun. Me and my men would be honored to have you and yours among us. We could guard your horses along with our own, too.”
“I would, and my thanks,” Daralanteriel said. “Well, Dalla, there’s our answer. We’ll leave most of the men here to set up camp.”
“And me and my men will be glad to help you,” Gerran said.
Calonderiel urged his horse forward. “I’ll stay behind for now to work things out with the captain here.” He nodded to Gerran, then paused with that oddly surprised expression returning to his face. Gerran looked just as startled by something, or so it seemed to Salamander. “We’ve met before, haven’t we, Captain?” Cal said at last.
“Not that I remember.” But Gerran sounded profoundly uncertain. “Have you ridden our way before, sir?”
“Not to the Red Wolf dun, but I’ve visited Cengarn several times.”
“Ah.” Gerran smiled in sudden understanding. “My foster brother and I were pages here.”
“That explains it, then.”
Salamander glanced Dallandra’s way and found her suppressing a smile. He was willing to wager high that Gerran was remembering Calonderiel from his previous life and not from his childhood at all.
“My thanks, Captain, for your offer of aid,” Dalla said. “My prince, we’d best get up to the dun. Let’s not forget the gwerbret’s wedding present. And remember, everybody—speak Deverrian from now on.”
When Daralanteriel led his much-reduced retinue into Cengarn’s ward, servants ran to meet the man they knew as the Prince of the Westfolk, and pages raced off into the great hall to announce his arrival. Trailed by councillors and servants, Gwerbret Ridvar himself came out to greet the prince just as he and his escort were dismounting. Ridvar seemed to have grown an inch or so since Salamander had last seen him, or perhaps he merely seemed taller with newfound confidence; in new linen shirt with his clan’s device at the yokes, with his dark hair bound round with a fillet of gold, he looked splendid, a true nobleman, as he strode over to bow to the prince.
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