The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [141]
For a moment or two Salamander stood uncertainly in front of the tent he was sharing with Meranaldar and some of the archers. He needed to talk with Calonderiel about a delicate matter, a difficult proposition in the best of times, even though the banadar’s affair with Dallandra had sweetened his general outlook on life. He decided to take the coward’s way out and wait for Dallandra to join them.
The sky, in the west still a pale bluish gray, was turning as soft as velvet in the last of the twilight. Slowly it darkened; a scatter of stars came out on the eastern horizon, while to the west the last gold of sunset faded. Down on the earth, out beyond the horse herd, a flash of blue fire leaped up from the ground. It hovered in the air, then spread out, racing around the camp deosil to form a wall of blue flames. They grew taller, stronger, raced upward until they met at a center point high above the camp. At the cardinal points glowing gold sigils sprang into existence, the seals of the Elemental Kings, and another appeared directly above at the center point, the sigil of Aethyr. Dallandra had finished the astral shield.
Salamander realized that he’d opened his etheric sight without consciously choosing to do so, a very bad sign of that strain Dallandra had mentioned. He closed it down, then strolled over to meet her as she came back to camp. She strode along so purposefully that he could still see the gleaming sword of astral light in her warrior’s hand, but when she smiled at him, that small illusion vanished.
“Let’s sit down,” she said. “I’m tired.”
They joined the others in front of the prince’s tent. Salamander sat down next to Meranaldar, while Dallandra took her place next to Calonderiel. For a brief while they all discussed the road ahead, but eventually Salamander steeled his nerve and caught Cal’s attention.
“I’ve a favor to ask you, banadar,” Salamander said. “When we lay our news before the gwerbret, I don’t want you to mention Lord Honelg. The gwerbret and the priests between them will slaughter him and his men, and maybe even his womenfolk, for all I know.”
“So?” Cal said. “That’s what he deserves. He’d slaughter the lot of us if he could, wouldn’t he?” He paused to spit into the small campfire. “Vandar’s spawn!”
“That’s true.” Dallandra intervened, laying a hand on Cal’s arm. “But if we betray him to the priests, won’t his kin spread the word? Then the faithful will hate Vandar’s spawn even more.”
“Maybe,” Cal said. “But I don’t see how anyone could hate us more than they already do.”
“Well, you might be right, but it would be good to have the chance to show them how wrong they are.”
“You’ve got the best heart in the world.” Cal sighed in mock admiration. “Unfortunately, they don’t match you in that regard.”
“Well, surely,” Meranaldar joined in, “this sort of decision should be the prince’s.”
Cal turned his head and looked at the scribe—merely looked with eyes as cold and clear as ice on a winter stream. Meranaldar flinched.
“The banadar’s quite capable of handling this matter on his own,” Daralanteriel said. “As the old saying goes, too many fletchers crumple the feathers.”
“Thank you, Dar.” Cal turned to Salamander. “And what are you going to tell the gwerbret when he asks how you found the fortress? You just happened to meet a priestess on the road—that’s not going to sound very convincing.”
“Well, um, you’re right.” Salamander pulled a long face. “But I’ll think of something.”
“One of your lies, you mean.”
“Honelg fed me at his table and treated me as an honored guest. I can’t betray him.”
“Yes, you can.” Calonderiel crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. “I respect the law of hospitality as much as anyone in the Westlands, but this is no ordinary time. Hasn’t it