The Dragon Revenant - Katharine Kerr [140]
“It gripes my soul!” Praedd snarled. “Will we get a strike on them, my lord?”
“I sincerely hope so, lads. I’ll wager anything you want that these men were slain just so they couldn’t shelter us.”
Only then did his grief hit home, grief and rage and sheer overwhelming guilt, that these wise and gentle elders had died because of him and his troubles—but not because of him alone, he reminded himself, rather from the foul evil that was infecting the islands like rot in the timbers of a ship. He knew he was trembling, his heart pounding, felt himself turn as cold and hard as a sword carved of ice. The Wildfolk of Aethyr gathered round him like a summer storm, crackling and hissing in the air, rushing up and down the walls in the blue fire of sheet lightning.
“I swear by all my holy vows, they who slaughtered these innocent souls will pay the price in blood-coin.”
As his voice echoed in the silent shrine, a flash of brilliant white burst over the altar with the acrid smell of lightning. Praedd and Amyr sank to their knees in awe and terror both.
“The god has witnessed my vow. So be it!”
And with the deepest thunder of all, three great knocks throbbed and rolled through the shrine.
If he had been alone, Nevyn would have walked through the night in his holy rage to reach Pastedion, but as it was, he had men, and beasts, too, for that matter, under his care. They all spent a restless night—even the horses seemed to have picked up that something was wrong—camped with their backs to the cliff. Though everyone else managed to sleep, Nevyn stayed up, pacing back and forth by the river as he kept up a guard in more worlds than one.
In the morning no one grumbled when Nevyn insisted they make an early start. By pushing themselves they reached Pastedion well before sunset, just as it was waking up from its noontide nap and its citizens were beginning to wander down to the marketplace for a snack and a gossip. Everyone turned to stare at the party of well-armed and grim horsemen who clattered through the streets on their way to the archon’s palace. They all dismounted in a died courtyard planted with cypresses and set with marble fountains. When a pair of harried-looking servants rushed out and announced that the archon, Graffaeo, was receiving no visitors, Nevyn grabbed the closest unfortunate by his tunic and lifted him half off his feet.
“You tell him that Lord Galrion of Aberwyn is here on urgent business for the gwerbret of said city, and that he brings horrible news to boot. The elderly priests who served the Wave-father up on the river road have all been murdered, practically in their beds. Understand?”
The slave squeaked and nodded a vigorous yes.
“Good. Then fetch him out here now.”
With one last squeak the slave wriggled free and rushed off into the palace as if demons were pinching his behind. Nevyn smiled, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.
Although normally, freeing a slave is a joyous occasion in the islands—the former master is expected to spread a goodly feast for friends and relations—Jill and the others had no appetite for celebrating after the brief ceremony that set Rhodry free. They were all sitting glumly in the guesthouse, arguing in spurts over what to do next, when Brother Merrano came hurrying in with news.
“Rhodry, there’s a Deverry man at the archon’s palace who claims to be one of your servitors. A Lord Galrion.”
“Who?” Rhodry glanced at Jill, who only shrugged in puzzlement. “I’ve never heard that name before.”
“It sounds like a name out of an ancient chronicle or suchlike,” Salamander chimed in.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Merrano said with some asperity. “But he’s brought a pack of armed men with him, and the archon’s afraid that he’ll start cutting off heads if you don’t get yourself there to calm him down.”
“Now that sounds like an Eldidd man, truly.” Rhodry got up and grinned. “Well and good, then. Let’s go greet him.”
The walk