The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [119]
Suddenly the priest threw up his hands and clapped them together hard. Dazed, Rhodry looked around. The statue was only a piece of wood, cleverly carved. The god had gone.
All that day, while he traveled fast along, Rhodry puzzled over the omen. What did it mean, that Jill rode down dark roads? He desperately wanted it to mean that Perryn had somehow forced her to come with him rather than her going willingly, but it was hard to convince himself of that, because Jill could have slain the lord easily if he had tried violence. Still, he clung to the first bit of hope he had that she still loved him. His heart was so torn for love of and fear for her that he never remembered the rest of the omen until years later, that, contrary to all nature and all sense, he would die twice over.
On the morrow, the meaning of the part of the omen that dealt with Jill came clearer when he reached a small village. In the tiny tavern he got his first hot meal and tankard of ale in days. As he was eating mutton stew by the unswept hearth, the tavernman strolled over to gossip.
“You’re the second silver dagger we’ve seen in here lately,” he said. “Or, well, I don’t suppose this lass was truly a silver dagger.”
“A blond lass?” Rhodry’s heart was pounding even as he spoke casually. “Beautiful, but dressed like a lad?”
“Just that! Do you know her?”
“I do. How long ago were she and her red-haired lad in here? I’d like to see Jill and Perryn again.”
The tavernman considered, scratching his bald spot.
“Not more than four nights ago, I’d say. Friends of yours, are they? Neither of them are much for words, I must say.”
“Oh, Perryn never says much, truly.” Rhodry tried to sound cheerfully friendly. “But usually his lass is good for a bit of chatter.”
“Indeed? Then she must be ill or suchlike, because it was hard for her to say two words together. One of those thick-headed lasses, think I, all pretty face with nothing between her two ears.”
“Here, I hope she wasn’t ill. She’s usually as bright as a lark and twice as merry.”
The tavernman considered a long moment.
“Well, maybe she and that man of hers had a bit of a scrap. From the way she looked at him, I’d say he beats her a good bit. Fair terrified, she looked.”
Rhodry’s hand tightened on the tankard so hard that his knuckles went white. Riding down dark roads, he thought, I see.
“But be that as it may, lad, they went south when they left here. She said she was riding south, to find her grandfather.”
For a moment Rhodry was puzzled. Nevyn! he thought. Of course that’s how she’d describe him.
“Well and good, then, and my thanks.” He tossed the man a piece of Benoic’s silver.
Leaving the tankard unfinished, Rhodry rode out fast, heading for the crossroads and the track that would take him south.
The tavernman watched, rubbing Rhodry’s coin, until the silver dagger was out of sight. All at once he felt both guilty and frightened. Why had he lied like that, and all for the couple of coins that the strange fellow had given him? He hated to lie. Dimly he remembered arguing with the fellow, but here, after all he’d said, he’d gone and done it. He wished he had a horse, so that he could ride after the silver dagger and tell him the truth. He shook himself and looked up. The village idiot, poor old Marro, was shuffling along the street. The tavernman flung him Rhodry’s coin.
“Here, lad, take that home to your mother, and tell her I said she’s to buy you cloth for a new shirt.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Marro ran off. The tavernman went back to his customers.
“South?” Salamander said aloud. “How by every boil on the Lord of Hell’s balls did Rhodry know to turn south?”
The Wildfolk clustered around his campfire seemed to be pondering the question.
“My apologies, little brothers. Just a rhetorical question.”
Stretching, Salamander got up and frowned at the night sky while he wished he’d scried Rhodry out earlier. Since he was not much more than an apprentice at dweomer, it was difficult for him to scry without a focus of some sort and impossible