The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [43]
“Ye gods, I’ve slept all day!”
Yet Rhodry insisted, and once she was tucked up in the blankets with him beside her, radiating welcome warmth, Dallandra fell asleep straightaway.
For some while she slept in a normal oblivion, but eventually she woke and remembered the wards in the Gatelands. This time when she slept again, her mind went straight to the etheric and her wards. After she tended them, she stood in the tall grass and considered the swollen purple moon that hung, huge and menacing, over the meadow. She wanted to talk with Niffa, but since she knew only the girl’s dream image, rather than her physical presence, she could no more scry her out on the etheric than she could in the material world. Fortunately, Niffa seemed to want to talk with her, as well, because in what seemed a brief space of time, Niffa joined her. As they sat in the tall grass and talked, Niffa’s lack of rational control over her sleep-visions made it difficult to hold an organized conversation, but a bit at a time Dalla pieced together the girl’s story of her murdered husband and of Councilman Verrarc.
“But here,” Dallandra said at last. “You didn’t truly see Raena murder your man, did you?”
Niffa shook her head.
“And so you can’t be sure she—”
“That be what they both say!” Niffa snapped. “My mam and da, I do mean by that.”
“Well, who do they think killed him, then?”
“Evil spirits,” Niffa said. “The councilman, he did say this, and even our herbwoman and our Spirit Talker, they do believe him now.”
“What about the rest of the town?”
“The town? Well, the folk do be terrified and talk of witchcraft and dark things. They do but wish it forgotten, so they might pretend that naught were amiss.”
“I see. You’d best be careful, you know. They might turn on you eventually.”
“My mam, she do say the same. She be powerful frightened.”
Niffa’s image was growing thin, stretched out like a figure painted on cloth held against the landscape. Dallandra had to think quickly.
“You’re right to mistrust Raena,” Dallandra said, “but be careful! She’s very dangerous, and—”
Niffa’s image winked out. I wonder if she heard me? Dallandra thought. Well, no doubt I’ll see her here again.
1When she woke that morning, Niffa heard voices out in the great room—her mother’s and another woman’s. That best not be that miserable Raena! As she dressed, she snarled like a ferret. She found her clogs, slipped them on, then stomped into the other room, only to see Emla, Demet’s mother, sitting comfortably by the fire.
“Well, there you are,” Emla said. “I did come to see how you fare, lass. We’ve not seen you since—” Her voice choked with tears. “Since the funeral rites.”
“I’ve not been out much,” Niffa said. “Going out into the town does ache my heart.”
Niffa sat down on the bench next to Dera, who slipped an arm around her shoulders. Despite the grey in her blonde hair, Emla looked so like her son that seeing her made Niffa’s grief double in her heart.
“Sooner or later,” Dera said, “you’ll have to begin living again. I doubt me if Emla would begrudge you.”
“Not in the least.” Emla leaned forward in her chair. “You be young, Niffa. In time there’ll be another man, and I’d not have you thinking I’d take offense at your happiness.”
“I’ll never marry again!”
The older women exchanged glances—sad-eyed, but with a hint of a smile. Niffa got up, took a wooden bowl from the table, and busied herself with filling it with porridge from the kettle by the hearth.
“And there be another matter,” Emla went on. “Your mam and I did discuss this matter of Councilman Verrarc’s woman. He does wish to marry her, all right and proper-like, but Werda refuses to perform the rites.”
“No doubt she kens what’s best,” Niffa snapped. “She always does.”
“When it comes to spirits, no one would argue with that,” Emla said, smiling a little. “But flesh and blood—well, that be another matter, baint? And we all ken the history of the thing. Verro would have married his Raena years hence, had his wretched fool of a father but allowed. It does seem