A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [91]
“I give you my heartfelt greetings,” she said, “and hope I might be welcome here.”
She could just make out a rustle of surprised whispers. One man stepped from the crowd and walked a few paces in her direction. A dragon’s head, worked in gold and as big as the palm of his hand, clasped his belt. When he spoke, she could indeed understand him, but with some difficulty. His dialect was far more different from that of the Westfolk than, say, Eldidd speech is from that of Deverry proper.
“Strangers are always less than welcome. Are you a victim of the sea’s rage?”
It took her a moment to realize that he meant a castaway.
“No, good sir. I came here quite deliberately, looking for you and your people, in fact.”
Automatically he turned to glance at the cove, turned back to her with a slight frown.
“I see no boat.”
“Well, no.” There was nothing she could say but the truth. “I traveled by dweomer, and I come to greet you and ask your aid in the name of the Light that shines behind all the gods.”
Jill had never seen anyone look so surprised. He turned on one heel, staring at the beach, turned back to her with a shake of his head, his mouth half-open as he fought for words. The men behind him went dead-silent for a moment, then all began talking in a gabble of surprise until their leader shouted at them to be quiet.
“It seems discourteous in the extreme to ask you for some proof, but given the circumstances…”
Jill smiled, flung up one hand, and called upon the Spirits of Aethyr. In a blaze and stream of bluish light they flocked to her and made her hand and arm blaze with etheric fire far brighter than a torch. All round them Wildfolk swarmed into manifestation and spread out on the beach like an army.
“Forgive me for doubting you.” The elven leader bowed deep. “My name is Elamanderiel, and in the name of the Light, I bid you welcome.”
When Dallandra left Jill, she followed the sun road until the gold faded and the dappled tiles gave way to daffodils blooming by a stream. Following the stream uphill led her back past the circle of stones, through the mists, and down the long road by the sea whose waves broke on every shore and none of them. At length she made her way back to the river and found the Host scattered across the meadow and dancing, as if nothing troubling had ever happened in these lands. Under the young oak tree that hid his daughter, Evandar was sitting in the grass and playing sour notes on a bone whistle, about six inches long and bleached dead-white.
“Odd little trinket,” he remarked. “I found it lying over there, in among the bushes, as if someone had dropped it by mistake. What do you think it is, my love?”
“Oh, ych! It looks like it was made from an elven finger.”
“Doesn’t it? What is it? Two joints somehow glued together? No, but it’s much too long for a single joint.” He held his own hand against it in illustration. “I wondered what it would call up, you see, but so far, naught’s appeared in answer to my playing.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well. It gives me the strangest feeling, seeing it, and a worse one to hear it call. I wish you’d just smash it.”
“I would, except it’s a riddle, and I think me a good one at that.” He tossed it into the air, seemed to catch it, but when he opened his hand it was gone. “Now I know where it lies, but no one else does, and so I’ve covered a riddle with a riddle.”
“I can’t imagine any of your people making such a thing.”
“Indeed, no, and so I wonder: who dropped it here, and why were they prowling beside my river? I think me we’d best tend to our borders.”
All at once they were no longer alone. Like flames leaping out