The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [123]
Salamander cadged some griddle bread and honey from his father, then stood to eat it while he contemplated poverty. His escape from Zakh Gral had left him his life but little else, not a horse, not a blanket, none of his usual traveling gear.
“I suppose,” Devaberiel said, “you’ll need a horse since you’re going to Cengarn.”
“I was thinking of asking the prince for one,” Salamander said. “And a saddle and bridle.”
“And some tether ropes and saddlebags and a blanket for you, and so on and so forth.”
“That, too, alas.”
“Well, fortunately I have enough to spare. Let’s see. You’ve always liked that roan gelding. You can take him. And yesternight I sorted out some gear for you.” Devaberiel waved one hand at a neat stack beside his tent.
Salamander nearly choked on the last remnant of bread. He’d been expecting a long lecture before he got so much as a rope halter out of his father. Devaberiel was grinning, well aware of the effect he was having.
“What did you think?” Dev went on. “That I was going to berate you after you risked your life to save us all?” The grin disappeared, replaced by mournful eyes and a hand to his brow. “I know I’ve been a terrible father to you, but not so bad as all that.”
“Da, please, I don’t want to listen to you berate either yourself or me.” Salamander managed a smile. “Not first thing in the morning.”
“Agreed. Besides, no doubt you’ll be able to tell a few tales in the Cengarn market and end up burdened with more gear than before.”
“I have hopes that way, truly, though my sleight-of-hand tricks will have to wait for a new performing shirt. A thousand thanks for the horse and everything else.”
While he sorted out his new possessions, Salamander was thinking of Zakh Gral. He would have to tell his story to the gwerbret with the utmost care, he knew, both to convince Ridvar of what he’d seen and to protect Rocca. He wondered if she were really going to keep his shirt on the altar along with those other holy relics. Odd lot that they were, no doubt the shirt wouldn’t look out of place among them. And if he convinced the gwerbret to attack Zakh Gral, what would happen to Rocca then? That he might be responsible for her death—the thought turned him sick and cold. You’ll think of something then, he told himself. You always do.
Although her father’s dun stood no more than twenty miles from Cengarn, Branna had never seen the city before. Tieryn Gwivyr was not the sort of man to take a daughter traveling with him, no matter how hard she begged to go. She’d had to be content with descriptions of the place from the servants who did accompany their lord when he paid his duty visits to the gwerbret. From those she’d built up a good many mental images of the city—not that she expected them to be accurate.
“It gladdens my heart,” she remarked to Neb. “Finally I get to see what Cengarn really looks like.”
Yet once the Red Wolf contingent rode up to Cengarn, perched so high on its cliffs, Branna was shocked to find that her imaginings did indeed match the reality. As they rode in the south gate, she kept looking around her, goggling like a peasant with her mouth half-open. Ahead rose the green market hill she’d seen in her mind; cut into the hillside stood the entrance to the dwarven inn, exactly as she’d imagined it. Near the gates to the dun itself stood the little hill with the spring on top, bubbling away so abundantly despite its location that everyone assumed it drew on magic as well as underground water. I’ve been here before. The thought intruded itself on her consciousness and would not go away, no matter how many times she told herself that such was impossible.