The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [27]
“I see that Hennis, he deigns not to join us,” Werda said.
“Er, just so,” Admi said. “His servants did say that he be somewhat ill.”
“Huh.” Werda rolled her eyes. “It be a foolish thing to deny the power of the gods. He does get his blasphemies from the Mountain Folk, no doubt. They do mock the spirits, calling them but idle fancies.”
“Er, mayhap,” Admi said, “but no matter. There be four of us here in attendance upon the council, enough to make our deciding official.” He paused, glancing around the table. “Now, then, by the power invested in me as Chief Speaker, I do open this meeting, come together to discuss the death of Demet, the weaver’s second son. Yesterday morn Verrarc, chief officer of the town militia, did venture that evil spirits did slay the lad. Does any here dispute this finding?”
Frie and Burra shook their heads in a no. Admi turned to Werda.
“I too agree with Councilman Verrarc,” Werda said. “This night past have I walked round Citadel, and in many a place did I find spirits lurking. These were all weak little things, and I did invoke the gods upon them, and they did flee. No one of them could have slain Demet, but together, in a pack, they would be dangerous.”
“You have the thanks of the council,” Admi said, “for sending them on their way.”
“But will they come right back again?” Frie broke in. “That’s what I be wanting to know.”
“With spirits, it be a constant battle.” Werda gestured at the bundles on the table. “I did bring spirit traps for each of you to take to your dwellings and one to stay here in the Council House.”
“You have our thanks,” Admi said.
“Most welcome,” Werda continued. “And now I do ken that I’d best stay on guard against the spirits, which kenning be a weapon in itself. I have my own ways of standing watch.”
The councilmen all nodded as if they understood. Verrarc felt his stomach clench cold. If Raena insisted upon invoking her Lord Havoc again, Werda would be sure to know.
Lael brought Niffa the news of the council’s decision, when, late that afternoon, he carried home the wicker cage of ferrets from their day’s ratting. Niffa took the cage into the other room and released the weasels into their pen; Lael had already taken off their hunting hoods. She came back out to the great room and found him ladling himself a tankard of flat ale from the barrel near the hearth. Dera sat at table, eating a few slices of honeyed apples.
“Do have some of this,” she was saying.
“I won’t,” Lael said. “It be your medicaments, and I’d have you eat the lot, my love.”
Niffa set the empty cage down by the hearth. She was aware of her father watching her with sad eyes.
“What be so wrong, Da?” Niffa said.
“Well, when I were down in town, I did hear the crier. The council, they do say that the matter of Demet’s death be closed. Evil spirits, and Werda, she did sanction their decision.”
Niffa stared down at the straw on the floor and wondered if she were going to weep.
“Here now,” Lael said softly. “Had they ruled different, he still would have been gone.”
“Oh, true spoken. But now I’ve naught left of him, but my memories. Not even vengeance—not so much as that for a keepsake.”
Still, she did have one thing more, of course: her dreams. That evening and in those that followed she turned to her childhood refuge, where she could see Demet and pretend that he lived again. In those dreams she would perhaps come into a room and find him sitting there, laughing at her while she reproached him for pretending to die, or perhaps they would walk together by the