The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [128]
At the brass-bound gates of the temple complex a young priest leaned against the wall, yawning in the sun. He was a neophyte from the look of him, a skinny lad, his head shaved, and dressed only in a long tunic bound at the waist with a bit of rope. Had he been formally accepted into the god’s service, a small golden sickle would have dangled from his belt, but as it was, the rope lacked any adornment. At the sight of Neb, he stood up straight and clapped his hands together.
“Are you bringing that as an offering for the god?” the lad said. From the way he was eyeing the loaf Neb could guess that the god wouldn’t get more than a slice out of it.
“I am,” Neb said, “and I need to ask one of the priests here a question. It’s about a thing that happened in the past.”
“Very well. Come in, and I’ll carry that bread for you.”
Neb handed over the loaf and followed him into the compound. In the middle of a cobbled ward stood the round temple, an imposing building made of solid oak and roofed with slate. The double doors, gleaming with bronze, stood half-open. The neophyte ducked inside with the loaf. Neb heard murmuring voices; then the lad reappeared.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “His Holiness Lallyn’s awake, and he can see you now. I’ll just take this bread off to the refectory.”
It struck Neb as odd to mention the priest’s being awake, but when he stepped into the cool shadows of the temple, he understood.
At first the big round room seemed empty, lit only by two shafts of sunlight from narrow windows at either side of the door. Once Neb’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the statue of the god directly across from the entrance in the far curve of the wall. Some twenty feet high, Bel loomed in the shadows, the king of the world and lord of the sun, carved from the entire trunk of an oak that had been ancient, judging from its size, when it was honored by being cut down to serve the gods. Bel stood with his arms raised to shoulder-height and thrust at the observer in order to display the human heads, carved of a paler wood, dangling from his hands.
Nearby, in a three-legged half-round of a chair, sat a priest who seemed nearly as old as the tree. His wrinkled, frog-spotted skin stretched tight over his skull and his bony frame. Not only was he egg-bald, but he lacked eyelashes as well, and when he smiled, he revealed a single brown tooth off to one side of his mouth.
“Good morrow, lad.” The priest’s voice rasped and quavered. “Your name is?”
“Nerrobrantos, Your Holiness, scribe to Tieryn Cadryc of the Red Wolf.”
“Ah. Come closer, lad. I can hardly hear you.”
Neb hurried over and knelt before him.
“And what’s this question you have?” the priest said.
“Well, Your Holiness, I’ve heard tales from the local farmers about the ford west of the dun.”
“Ah.” The elderly priest interrupted with a smile. “The haunted ford, most like.”
“That was the tale, indeed, Your Holiness. Someone told me that at times the ghost of a lass appears. She seems to have a message for someone or some urgent task at hand. I was wondering if you knew who she might be.”
“Now that’s a new turn of the tale! I know of only one woman who died at the ford.” The old priest paused to suck his tooth. “A great many men and Horsekin did, however, in the general rout. I remember it well, seeing the river run red with blood.”
“It’s a grim tale, then.”
“It is.” Lallyn nodded slowly. “Now, the woman who died wasn’t a lass, but a white-haired female nearly as old as I am now. She was a witch, I suppose. How else could she have destroyed the demoness?”
“Demoness?”
“The one the Horsekin thought a goddess.”
“Alshandra?”
“That was the foul thing’s name, truly.” Lallyn paused again, this time to look away with rheumy eyes. “The witch had a bondwoman’s name. I’ve forgotten it. She and the demoness destroyed each other. Witches can call up demons, you know, but they always