Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [181]
During the day, Rhodry and the dragon would hunt, but she found little enough game, and Rhodry didn’t care to test the power of the ring by ordering her to share the kills. At night, they would join the other men in camp. It seemed that every day, some man or another had died either from fever or an old wound. They lost horses, too, until a good quarter of the army was walking home, not riding. When the rain finally stopped, what firewood they found lay soaked on freezing ground. The gwerbret walked among his men that night and talked to as many as he could.
“It’s not much farther now, lads, not much farther at all. A few more days and we’ll be home with a good fire and Cengarn’s stores to feed us.”
Everyone tried to smile and agree, but those few days loomed as large as one of the Hells.
That night, Rhodry dreamed of the raven woman, or rather, she invaded his sleep again. He was dreaming of Lin Serr and of walking down a long tunnel, shimmering blue in phosphorescent light upon marble. Ahead stood a round opening, glowing golden, and in the dream he heard a voice saying, “The Halls of the Dead.” He hesitated, wondering if he should go forward, when he saw her, striding toward him down the hallway from the direction in which he’d come. His first thought was to run into the golden light, but his courage saved him. He stood his ground and waited till she stood in front of him and smiled.
“What a coward you are,” Rhodry said. “Coming only in dreams. You can’t have much faith in your wretched dweomer.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Or don’t you even have much power left, with Alshandra dead?” he went on. “A few farmwives’ spells, I’ll wager, and no more.”
“Mock all you want, but leave that ugly beast of yours somewhere and come to me upon the ground. Then we’ll be seeing which one of us the coward may be.”
When he hesitated, she laughed, but it was such a nervous giggle that he realized how much she feared him—as much as he feared her.
“Look here at this.” She held up a silver dagger. “Do you know who this did belong to? Your friend, Yraen. The man who did slit his throat gave me his dagger for a trinket.”
“You’re lying.”
“I do not. It be mine, now, back in the day world, and I keep it with me always.”
“You lie, bitch!”
“I do not, and I’ll prove it. The dagger carries a little wyvern graved upon the blade, right up by the hilt. The thongs wrapping the hilt were made of pale buckskin once, but now they be all dark and stained.”
Choked with grief, Rhodry could say nothing.
“I do tell the truth, don’t I?” She tossed back her head and laughed. “I do have it, Rhodry Maelwaedd, and while I do keep it, I have the keeping of your friend’s precious honor, too. Think on it! His silver dagger does belong to a woman and an enemy!”
Rhodry stepped forward, grabbing at her throat, but she was gone, the hallway was gone—he was lying awake in a tangle of damp blankets and swearing at a dawn-streaked sky. Arzosah had swung her head round and was watching him.
“Did that woman come into your dreams again?”
“She did.” Rhodry sat up, pushing the blankets away. “How did you know?”
“You were tossing and muttering in your sleep, that’s how.”
“It was a wretched thing. Ah, ye gods, it’s hard to believe it’s real. Maybe it’s just the hunger and the cold.”
“Don’t be silly. She’s a shape-changer and a sorcerer. Why shouldn’t she come to you in dreams?”
“And