The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [114]
“By the Black Sun herself!” Dalla’s image briefly wavered. “Fearful, indeed! But at least you’ll be able to describe it to Cal and the gwerbret, too, for that matter. I can’t imagine that Ridvar will refuse to ask for the king’s aid now.”
“Nah, nah, nah, O, mistress of mighty magicks! Not so fast. Rocca brought me here, and we were met by the high priestess herself. All seemed to be going well. Her holiness was downright welcoming in fact, but then something rather awkward happened. I seem to have aroused the jealousy of a fledgling priestess. She insisted on seeing if I could pass a test. They have a silver dagger. I don’t know how or why they have it, but they do.”
“Did it have a little wyvern on the blade?”
“Yes, actually. How—”
“I know whose it is. I saw it in an omen-dream, but never mind that now.” In her image Dallandra’s face seemed to have turned a dull fearful gray. “I take it they made you touch the thing, and it showed you up—”
“As Vandar’s spawn. Exactly. Now, all is not yet lost. The head priestess here seems like a truly pious sort, and she’s convened a council to decide my fate. I’ve managed to convince them I didn’t know I had elven blood, you see. I spun an elaborate tale of being a bastard who’d never known his father.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad you’re so good at lying.”
“Thank you—I suppose. But in the end I managed to convince them to lock me up at the top of a high tower.”
“Did you?” The color returned to Dalla’s face. “Well, then, that gives me hope! But be careful, no matter what happens.”
“Fear not! You’re learning to appreciate mendacity, whilst I’m beginning to value caution, canniness, circumspection, and all its kin. However that may be, I shan’t die before sunset tomorrow, no matter how the council votes.”
“That will give you a little time, yes. Well, tell me, will you, as soon as you know the verdict? I’m going to go talk with Cal and the prince.”
Once Dallandra broke off contact, Salamander sat down in a corner and watched the sunset sky first flame, then fade. He wondered how long the council would debate—not long, he’d wager. Since he was a stranger with only Rocca to argue in his favor, they’d doubtless decide quickly to kill him.
Just as the hazy twilight was giving way to night and the wheel of stars shone out, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He scrambled up, his heart pounding, and took a few steps toward the door. It opened to reveal an elderly human slave, carrying a basket over one arm, and two armed Horsekin guards, one holding a candle lantern.
“Food,” the servant said. “And water.”
He set the basket down, watching Salamander all the while, then backed out of the room as if he were afraid that the prisoner would spring upon him like a beast. The locks clanged shut again, and Salamander heard them all clattering down the stairs. He picked up the basket and peered in—half a loaf of fresh warm bread, a honeycomb in a twist of leaf, some slices of cold meat, and a leather bottle of water. When he took out the bread, he found beneath it a metal plate, heavily embossed. Running his fingers over it in the dark told him little about the design—some flowers, a circle of what was most likely writing.
“Decent of them,” he muttered, “and their doom.” He settled down to eat.
For much of the evening he slept, gathering strength. Toward midnight another visitor came up the stairs, this one treading so lightly that at first Salamander was unsure if someone were coming or not. Then a hand rattled the chain.
“Evan?” It was Rocca’s voice, whispering, trembling in grief. “Evan, be you awake?”
“I am.” He crossed to the door and spoke quietly. “I take it the council goes badly.”
“It does, not that my heart be void of hope, but only Lakanza does seem to care about the justice of the thing. The others