The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [117]
“Aren’t you the hospitable sort?” Salamander’s voice came out as a croaking rasping parody of human speech.
The sound seemed to make the magpie notice just how large his sudden neighbor was. With a squawk of sheer terror, the real bird flew off screeching. Enough of Salamander’s current nature was magpie for him to be tempted to go through the other’s nest and steal whatever trinkets it had hidden there, but he put the temptation firmly out of his mind. That he’d even thought it signaled a dangerous exhaustion. With a flap of his aching wings, he settled to the ground next to the sack.
For some little while he rested among the rasping blades of marsh grass, but his wings trailed uselessly, and he needed feet more than claws. He reversed the dweomer, imaging his own body in his mind and sending the image out to apparent solidity in front of him. In spite of his ever-present fear of being trapped in bird-form, his real body built up fast, sucking the etheric substance back into it of its own will. Salamander heard a sudden click, a percussive hiss; then he was sitting dazed and naked on the hummock of grass, and there was nothing left of the magpie but claw marks in damp ground.
Just a few feet away the rising sun rippled and glinted in flecks like fire on the river. He dumped the contents of his sack, turned the sack back into brigga, and put them on before limping to the riverside on cramped feet. Now for Rocca, he thought. I’ll never forgive myself if she’s come to harm.
He knelt with a grunt of exhaustion. When he thought of Rocca, the vision built up on the sun-touched water. It seemed that he was hovering some twenty feet above the altar of the Outer Shrine. Rocca stood in front of it, her arms outstretched, her face glowing with such joy that he knew she believed in his artificial miracle. She was wearing his filthy, sweat-stained shirt around her shoulders like a cloak. On the ground Sidro knelt, her raven-dark head tossed back, her arms crossed over her chest. Behind her stood the Horsekin priestesses. Every now and then one of them gave Sidro a random sort of kick as Rocca continued her prayers.
Salamander focused the vision down until he could see Sidro more clearly. He was expecting her to be humiliated and terrified, but the look on her face and the trembling of her shoulders spoke of sheer cold rage. Watching her, Salamander felt oddly frightened. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She’s miles away, and she doesn’t even have dweomer. Yet suddenly he wasn’t so sure of that. What had she seen that prompted her to call him Vandar’s spawn? Although anyone who knew the Westfolk well could have picked up traces of his mixed blood, still he looked far more human than elven. Yet Sidro had challenged him with perfect confidence. He broke the vision, half-fearing she would realize that he was watching her.
Besides, he needed to contact Dallandra. On the fiery surface of the water, Dalla’s image built up quickly, wavered, then steadied.
“Where are you?” Dalla thought to him. “I’ve never felt your mind so exhausted! Where’s your shirt?”
“In Zakh Gral, where it’s become a holy relic,” Salamander thought back. “So are my horses and all my gear, though I don’t suppose those will end up on the altar. My manly chest, however, has escaped with me, although little black flies, alas, are trying to bite it even as we speak.”
“Will you stop babbling like that?”
“I’ll do my best. As you’ve doubtless guessed, I took bird-form and did get clean away, and I remembered to bring along some evidence that the place exists. Alas, I couldn’t carry everything,