Days of Blood and Fire - Katharine Kerr [103]
All at once she realized two things. First, she was thinking too coldly, too calmly, to be actually dead. Second, she ached all over, a mere distant throb now that she’d noticed it, then a rather present throb, then an ache, and finally a burning like fire. Light like fire danced before her eyes; it seemed that she swam through fire, upward to a distant, cooler light. When she opened her eyes she found the vulpine face of Evandar’s brother leaning close to hers.
“Good,” he grunted. “You live. Dead you’d have been of no use to me.”
She tried to speak and mock him, but the pain over-whelmed her. Once more she sank away from consciousness, but this time her last thought was that at least she was still alive—for at least a while.
Since Jill was of count used to the warped seams of Time between the physical world and Evandar’s country, she thought nothing of it when Dallandra failed to return straightaway. Over the next few nights she spent long hours scrying’, ranging as far from the dun as she dared, whether in the falcon form or the body of light, in the hopes of bringing the gwerbret some advance warning of an attack. Every morning she would join Cadmar at breakfast to make her report. Since Lord Gwinardd had taken his men and gone back to his own dun, the great hall echoed half-empty and strangely silent. On the far side of the hall, the warband would strain to hear what she might be saying to their lord. Rumors had spread, as they always do, and every man there knew that war was on the way. The only question was when.
After her meal Jill would walk to the dwarven inn to tend Rhodry’s wound and ask him about his dreams. Never again did he see the eyes, watching him, but she assumed that the enemy, who or whatever it might have been, was continuing to scry, merely more deftly. She was faced with an evil choice. She could easily have put astral seals over Rhodry—over the entire town and dun, for that matter— that would have prevented any dweomerworker, no matter how skilled, from scrying out a single detail. If she did so, though, she might as well have hung out huge banners announcing the presence of a master sorcerer. Since she had no reason to assume that their enemies knew either who she was or that she was in the dun, she preferred to keep them wondering about Cengarn’s strength.
After her visit she would return to her chamber and sleep for a few hours, waking before sunset to eat a meager meal before resuming her night watch. On the fourth afternoon of this routine, Jahdo came to her chamber just as she was finishing a chunk of bread and cheese. One sharp glance at the boy told her that something was badly wrong. She ushered him in, then called upon the Wildfolk of Aethyr, who materialized in a flicker of silver light.
“Are you ill, lad?”
“I’m not, my lady. I did hear that Rhodry would be leaving Cengarn with his small friends and that none did know when he would return.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From Yraen. He did tell me not to tell others, and I have not, only you, being as I were sure you knew this well already.”
“Just so. Well, now, are you going to miss Rhodry? Is that the trouble?”
“I do want to go along with him.”
Yet his voice had such a false ring that Jill gave him a sharp looking over. She found agony in his eyes.
“Jahdo, are you sure you don’t feel ill? Fevers give us strange thoughts at time.”
“I be well, truly.” He began to tremble. “I just did want to ask if I could go with Rhodry and the dwarves.”
She knelt on one knee so that she could look him in the face.
“You really want to leave Cengarn?”
The trembling turned to a shake like palsy. He made a guttural noise deep in his throat, swallowed hard, and finally spoke.
“I want to go away.”
“I don’t believe you. Is it really true that you want to go away?”
“It is.” But his head shook in a convulsive no.