The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [113]
“One last thing!” Rocca said, then caught her breath in a sob. “I pray you believe me, Evan, that I never meant you harm.”
“I do believe you. Please, forgive me for accusing you. I was so confused, I just didn’t know what to think. Forgive me?”
“Of course I do.” Rocca managed a trembling smile. “Of course.”
The guards turned him around and marched him away. As they walked toward the main building of the fort, they paused to grab his little table dagger from his belt and run rough hands over his clothes, searching apparently for weapons.
“You’ve found what cold steel I have,” Salamander said.
The guards looked at each other, shrugged, and went on searching. Whether or not they spoke Deverrian he couldn’t tell. They marched him into the main building of the fort, one huge room that still lacked a proper floor, then hauled him up the stairs of the wooden tower. At the top they opened a little door and shoved him through. A wood floor, an unglazed window, a small hearth set into one wall—other than that, the room stood utterly bare. One of the guards pointed to the window, said something in his own language, then laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. Most likely the jest involved his being thrown through the window and down on the morrow. The guards slammed the door shut, and Salamander heard the rattle of metal chain.
A woman’s voice, firm and commanding—Rocca, though he couldn’t understand the words. The door opened again.
“I’ve brought you somewhat,” she said. “To cheer your heart this night of waiting.”
“My thanks, unworthy wretch that I am.”
She handed him a miniature quiver holding four tiny arrows, each about three inches long, each dyed a different color. “This be a prayer token. The black arrow does stand for Vandar’s world, sunk in its depravity. The red be the blood that will wash and redeem it, the white the purity of the cleansed world, and the gold—” Here Rocca paused for a smile, “The gold it does stand for the life we all will share in Alshandra’s kingdom.”
Salamander clutched it over his heart with what he hoped was a suitably pious expression. “You’ve given me great cheer indeed. Again I thank you.”
Rocca’s smile froze into something close to tears, and she turned quickly away. “I’d best be getting myself to the council.”
Rocca hurried out, and the guards once more slammed the door. He could tell by the rattle of the chain and a thump of iron hitting wood that they had barred and tied it. He waited until their footsteps had gone down the stairs, then went to the window and looked out onto a straight drop far down. Below, gilded by the last of the afternoon light, lay cut blocks of granite, piled this way and that. A man who fell from the window would land on chiseled edges, not merely flat stone.
From his perch he could also see most of the fort spread out below and the land beyond as well. He spent some time carefully memorizing what he saw, noting details here and there, such as the postern gate and a half-finished course of stone running along the cliff top. Apparently, they planned an outer fortification that would enclose the entire citadel. Inside, he saw a number of water wells, and here and there deep pits lined with stone—food storage, perhaps? It seemed that the Horsekin were well aware that they might have to stand a long siege, but whom, he wondered, did they fear? Vandar’s spawn, perhaps, or perhaps the Gel da’Thae or even another sect or tribe of Horsekin. More’s the pity, he thought, that you won’t be staying long enough to find out.
By then the sunset was turning the scattered clouds into streaks of flame against the sky. Salamander used them as a focus and contacted Dallandra. When he could see her face and the help and safety it represented, his thoughts ran away from him in a sudden spate of words and half-voiced feelings.
“Don’t babble at me!” Dallandra said. “What’s so wrong?”
“My apologies, and truly, it’s babbling that got me into this, a bitter lesson I fear for one so enamored of his own voice