The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [139]
“Hush. Listen, Jill, Rhodry’s no weak younger son any longer. Once we get him recalled, he’ll be Aberwyn’s only heir, and that means he’ll be the gwerbret when his black-hearted brother dies. He’ll be in a position to demand the wife he wants, no matter what his mother or the rest of the noble-born think of it.”
Salamander laughed.
“And there you are, my turtledove—an ending exactly like one of my tales.”
“So it seems.”
Jill smiled, because they both wanted her to be pleased, but she felt the dweomer cold down her back. When Blaen launched into a monologue on Eldidd politics, she wandered away to the window and looked down on the garden below. Salamander had told Blaen a pretty tale, sure enough; she could see how it would protect her. If Rhodry wanted nothing more to do with her, everyone would assume that he’d merely tired of her and left, as men so often did to their women. And if he forgave her … the thought staggered her, that she, of all lowly commoners, might someday be the wife of a great gwerbret. For a moment she was terrified, thinking of the responsibilities, the power that could be hers. Lovyan would teach me, she thought, if Rhodry even wants me anymore, that is.
But as the thought came to her, so did another … or not precisely a thought, a feeling, rather, a sudden urgency. Rhodry was in danger. She knew it with complete clarity, that he was in the worst danger of his life and that in this moment of danger he was thinking only of her. She shut her eyes and thought back to him, tried desperately to reach him, to warn him. Images flickered in her mind, as hazy as those seen when a person is first falling asleep, ever-changing glimpses: Rhodry on a narrow street, Rhodry ducking down an alley when some of the city wardens strolled by. Although the images flickered, the feeling of danger grew until she could barely breathe. He was talking with someone—he was asking about Nevyn, asking about her—they were lying, saying that she was in Cerrmor, giving him friendly directions—
“Rhodry, don’t go!”
She heard a crash, looked around dazed, and realized that she’d dropped the goblet she was holding. Blaen and Salamander had whirled round to look at her. She had screamed her warning aloud.
“What by the gods?” Blaen said.
“Rhodry’s in Cerrmor. He’s in danger. I know he is. I saw—I felt it. I tried to warn him.” She tossed back her head and sobbed, because she knew that the warning had never reached him. “We’ve got to get to Cerrmor. We’ve got to leave now.”
Blaen set down his goblet and hurried over to pat her shoulder awkwardly as she wept, as if he thought her mind turned weak and childish by grief, but Salamander was taking her warning in dead seriousness. Through her tears she saw him snap his fingers over the charcoal brazier in the corner, then stare intently into the lambent flames. She forced the tears back and wiped her face on her sleeve.
“Ah ye gods!” There was panic in his voice. “I can’t find him! Jill, I can’t scry him out!”
The chamber seemed to swell around her, and the light grew painfully bright. The silver flagon on the table threw off sparks like a fire.
“Call to Nevyn,” she said.
Then Blaen grabbed her and half led, half shoved her into a chair. She slumped back and watched Salamander, bending over the brazier. His tunic seemed to ripple around him as if he stood in a breeze. She was afraid to look at the intricate carpets.
“Jill, do you need a chirurgeon?” Blaen said.
“I don’t, my thanks. It’s just the fear.” She forced herself to raise her head and look him in the face. “Your Grace, don’t you see what this means? Remember Alastyr? If Salamander can’t scry Rhodry out, someone’s hiding him—with dweomer.”
As it danced over the flames, Salamander’s image looked close to tears. Nevyn himself felt a weary sort of rage, cursing himself because he should have seen this danger coming. Had the Lords of Light sent some omen that he’d overlooked? He quite simply didn’t know.
“I can’t find him either,” Nevyn thought.
“Is he dead, then?”
“He can