The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [159]
“Ah, my thanks, good innkeep. You have brought me a most highly recommended silver dagger, who, though young, is known for deeds of derring-do and blood and guts, such as eating the livers out of bandits and the hearts out of thieves.”
“You do go on so, sir! Will you be honoring us with a tale this evening?”
“Mayhap, mayhap. Come in, Gilyn. Let us discuss this hire.”
It turned out that he’d rented not a chamber but an entire suite, paneled in dark wood and furnished with a cushioned chair, a carved table, and a long purple Bardek divan as well as a bed in a separate room.
“You don’t stint yourself, do you?” Jill said.
“And why should I?” Salamander poured her a goblet of pale mead from a glass flagon. “Now, I’ll wager that you can guess that the gwerbret hasn’t found Rhodry.”
“He’s never going to.”
Salamander glanced up, the mead glass still in his hand, his lips half parted as he stared at her in sudden fear.
“Rhodry’s in the hands of the Hawks of the Brotherhood.”
For a long moment the gerthddyn never moved or spoke. It seemed, indeed, that he’d stopped breathing until at last he whispered out his words.
“Oh ye gods, not that! Are you certain?”
“The man who was hunting for him had handled so much arsenic that his skin and hair were turned slick. When I just barely mentioned the work ‘hawk,’ the man I was talking to went all hysterical on me.” She slammed her fist on the table so hard that the flagon jiggled and spilled. “I know what the Hawks do to men they get their hands on. If they’ve put Rhodry to torture, they’re going to die. One man for every mark they give him. I swear it. I’ll track them down like ferrets after rats. One man for every mark.” The she began to laugh, a maddened chuckle that took over her voice.
“Jill! Stop it! By the gods!”
She tossed her head and went on laughing. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her, yelled at her, then finally slammed her against the wall. The laughter stopped. When she saw the grief in his smoky-gray eyes, she wondered at herself for not being able to weep. She shook free of his hands and went to the window to look down at the narrow garden. It seemed painfully unjust that the sun should be so bright when her Rhodry was in the hands of darkness. Then she heard Salamander sob and spun around to see tears running down his face as he stood there limply, his hands at his sides. The contrast between his elegant clothing and his helpless pain made him look like a child in his father’s finery. Unsure of what to say, she went over and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder.
“You forget he’s my brother.”
“I do, at that. Forgive me?”
He nodded, looked away, still weeping, his shoulders shaking, and yet he made no sound. Jill realized that she could say naught to him that would be a right thing.
“I’m going to the Capstan to get my gear.”
He nodded to show that he’d heard, but he never looked at her.
During the long walk back to the Capstan, Jill felt as exhausted as if she’d fought a long battle, as drained as if she’d found Rhodry dead. She realized, then, that she was indeed thinking of him as being as good as dead, and that she could never mourn until she avenged him. If they did torture him to death, she swore that her vengeance would be a long thing, a slow, patient hunt with many a kill to its credit. So the Hawks had dweomer, did they? So did she, and she would use it to the full if she had to. When she looked up at the sky, it was a brilliant, swelling blue; the cobbles on the street seemed to glow from within. It was the power rising within her along the channel that Perryn’s unwitting dweomer had carved out by accident, and she knew then that she could summon it when she needed it. Yet it would be dangerous: she was