The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [116]
The most difficult dweomer working of all lay ahead. Salamander went to the window and laid his hands on the sill beside the improvised sack. As he stared up at the stars, he felt power gather. Slowly he invoked more, felt it flow through him until his body became a mere channel, a thin shell, surrounding the power coursing through it. In his mind, he formulated the image of a black-and-white magpie, then sent the picture forward through his eyes until it seemed to perch on the windowsill between his hands. With a wrench of will, he transferred his consciousness over to the bird form until it seemed that he looked out of the small yellow eyes.
Now came the crux. He drew more and more of the life substance from the body standing behind his consciousness into the bird form until the magpie seemed solid and the man’s body only an illusion. Since he’d not worked this spell in over forty years, he had to fight for concentration. One slip now meant death. He called on the holy names of the gods, called on Alshandra, too, in a moment of near-hysterical drollery, and kept on sucking more and more of the etheric substance into his new body. At last, as he uttered one last mighty Name, a sound like thunder burst behind his eyes, and the etheric substance dragged the physical with it. Salamander the man was gone from the chamber. A magpie—an abnormally huge magpie—perched on the windowsill.
With a caw of triumph, Salamander hopped onto the improvised sack and sank his claws into the cloth. He sprang into the air and flew, flapping in wide circles over the fort far below. On his last pass by the tower, he saw the window of his former prison still glowing with silver light. Out in the ward tiny figures of Horsekin scurried around, heading for the tower. Their frantic voices drifted up to him, but he could understand nothing of what they were shouting to one another.
There’s nothing like a good miracle, Salamander thought, to keep the holy-minded occupied. Fighting the wind currents, he headed south.
Salamander had guessed right about Dallandra’s distracted mood. Two of Cal’s archers had been courting the same young woman, and eventually they’d come to blows. Dallandra had just fallen asleep in the grass near her tent when Calonderiel came running to wake her. She sat up and listened to his report in sullen annoyance.
“Why do you need me?” she said finally. “The bruises—”
“It’s worse than bruises,” Cal said. “One of them drew his knife.”
Hurriedly, Dallandra got to her feet. “I need to get my tools from the tent,” she said. “How bad is the cut?”
“More than one. The other drew his, too.”
“Of course. Why did I ever think otherwise?”
While she was stitching up the worst of the slashes, Dalla was aware of Salamander trying to reach her, but with the blood still flowing down her patient’s arm, she could spare the gerthddyn none of her concentration. After both love-sick warriors were stitched, dosed with herbs, and properly berated, Dallandra did try to contact Salamander, but this time it was his mind that refused to respond. She received a general impression of rushing wind and a view of night-dark trees that rose and fell in a steady rhythm. By the Dark Sun! she thought. He must be flying.
All she could do was wait for him to regain his proper body.
As the night wore on, Salamander found it harder and harder to stay in the air. His wings ached, and he took to gliding upon air currents whenever he could. His legs hurt as well; his talons in bird-form were at root his feet and toes, parts of the body that were normally spared such work as carrying heavy sacks. Still, he forced himself onward. He could think of two possible outcomes if the Horsekin caught him. In one, Rocca would prevail upon them to kill him quickly. In the other, the pains he was feeling at the moment would seem like pleasure compared to what they’d do to him.
Below him the scrubby tableland kept dropping down, until