Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [133]
“The blessings of all the gods be upon you.” Zatcheka tipped back her enormous head and howled, a long high note that seemed to stick in the wall like a spear. The guards turned, saw the talismans in her hands, and joined her in a second long howl of keening.
“It aches my heart that I did bring you grief,” Jahdo went on. “But Meer, he did tell me that there be a need on any man who finds such things to bring them back to the mother who bore the slain.”
“You've not brought me grief, young Jahdo, but joy, for if the gods guide me safely home, I shall be able to hang these in the temple, where they belong.” Tears welled in her eyes. “And then their souls will rest at last.”
“May peace wrap them in soft arms,” Dallandra said. “You have my heartfelt sympathy for your loss.”
“My lady?” Jahdo bowed to Zatcheka. “I do miss Meer powerful bad. He did treat me like a son, not a servant. I'll not be forgetting him, not if I live to see a hundred winters.”
“My thanks to you for that speaking.” Zatcheka was staring at the talismans in her hands.
“There be another thing,” Jahdo went on. “The white horse over there? See you him, tethered with the others? His name be Bahkti, and he did belong to Meer.”
“In truth, the horse be mine.” Zatcheka looked up, her face so still that it might have been painted stone. “I did let him but borrow Bahkti for his journey. But my thanks for his safe return. Later, young Jahdo, I think me I shall find a little gift for you to show my gratitude.”
“I should be honored, my lady, but truly, I expect naught. Meer was my friend.”
For a moment Zatcheka's mask of stone seemed on the verge of shattering, but she spoke in a level voice.
“Here, mazrak, let me not stay you. There be a need on me to remain here with my grief, but truly, you'd best give the townsfolk balm for their fears of that beast.”
“True spoken,” Dallandra said. “We'll talk more later, if that pleases you. Jahdo, come show me how to get over to the island.”
Since Dallandra had never paddled a boat in her life, she was more than thankful that Jahdo rowed them across. Through the mists drifting across the water she saw Citadel looming above them, closer and closer until at last they ran aground at the sandy shore. While Jahdo beached the coracle properly she stood looking up the winding path that led twixt white buildings to the summit. She could hear distant shouting.
“I hope they don't try to hurt Arzosah,” she remarked. “Not that they could, but if they provoked her—”
“My people, they be not stupid,” Jahdo said. “And Werda does live right nearby the plaza. She'll be holding them off.”
“She's your Spirit Talker? Niffa mentioned that name.”
“She is that.”
After a long climb uphill that left Dallandra panting for breath, they reached the stone-paved plaza and found themselves in the midst of a small crowd of townsfolk, all huddled together. Some of the men carried staves and flails, but they seemed in no hurry to use them. At the far side, where worked stone buildings ended in a tumble of boulders, stood a tall woman with grey hair that hung free to her waist. She was wearing a white cloak thrown back from her shoulders, and she carried a wood staff, bound here and there along its length with flat silver rings—Dallandra could see them winking in the sun as the woman moved.
“That be Werda,” Jahdo said. “Let's join her. I doubt me if anyone will mind our pushing in front of them.”
Indeed, the crowd seemed more than willing to let Jahdo and Dallandra get between them and the dragon. They worked their way through the muttering townsfolk, then jogged across the open stretch of plaza. By then Werda had climbed a flat-topped boulder and stood, staff in hand, looking toward the crowd. Dallandra saw Niffa, standing on the paving stones just below the Spirit Talker's rocky perch. She could just get a glimpse of Arzosah, sitting behind the boulders, and Rhodry,