The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [166]
But why would a dark dweomerman—the dark guilds only allowed men to join—be consorting with Horsekin? Had some of the dark dweomer practioners fled the legal authorities in their homeland and come north to take refuge among the Horsekin tribes? If so, it was possible that her mysterious mazrak was one of them. But how had he managed to survive, when the Alshandra cult demanded death for anyone working dweomer?
“Too many questions,” she said aloud. “There may be answers in Zakh Gral—if we can take the fort and get at them. If? We have to now. We absolutely have to.”
Soon after, Calonderiel returned with the news that the prince and Meranaldar were still trying to think of some polite reason to leave the gwerbret’s table.
“You know, I even feel sorry for our milksop scribe,” Cal said, smiling. “He was nearly asleep and desperately trying to stay awake. It would be rude, after all, to start snoring at table, and the gods all know that being rude is his worst fear.”
“You are mean sometimes!”
“I suppose so.” He cocked his head to one side and studied her for a moment. “You look like you’ve got bad news to tell me.”
“Mean you are, but also perceptive. I’m afraid I do. Branna and I spotted a mazrak this evening, circling above the camp. It can’t be any of the priestesses from Zakh Gral. That means there’s a rogue stallion hanging around this herd, and I don’t know who he is.”
For a moment Cal blinked at her; then he swore with some of the foulest oaths she’d ever heard him use.
“Well,” she said when he’d done, “I felt somewhat the same.”
“Only somewhat, or so I should hope. You must be sure of this, or you wouldn’t tell me.”
“Oh, yes. This mazrak is the real reason I didn’t want Cadryc’s womenfolk out on the road. Tell me, will they be staying in Cengarn?”
“Yes. The tieryn agreed with us instantly, and so did Lord Oth when we asked him.” Cal paused for a long sigh that shaded into a growl. “At least one thing’s gone our way. I suppose it was too much to hope that this campaign would be some nice clean military exercise and nothing more.”
“Apparently it was. This whole situation positively reeks of dweomer, and I’m afraid that some of it might be the worst possible kind.”
Much too early by Salamander’s reckoning, Dallandra woke him. Except for the two of them, the archers’ tent stood empty. Apparently he’d slept straight through all the noise of the other men rolling up their bedrolls and gathering their gear.
“They’re waiting for you to get up,” Dalla told him, “so they can strike the tent.”
“Ah, um, urk.” Salamander sat up. “I’ll hurry, then.”
He’d slept mostly dressed; he pulled on his boots and staggered outside to find the first pale gray of dawn a stripe on the eastern horizon. Muttering and complaining, he followed Dallandra down to the riverbank, where the water flowed glimmering from the silver day brightening in a cloudy sky. With such a ready focus, Salamander found the image of Honelg’s dun easily. At first it seemed that he was watching it from a great height, as if he flew over it in bird-form. He could feel danger so urgently, however, that he found himself swooping down, focusing down, until he seemed to be standing inside the ward.
Four men were loading sacks and bedrolls onto a pair of pack mules, while servants held the reins of four riding horses at the gates. Lord Honelg stood nearby, watching the men. He was holding a long stick in one hand, an object that Salamander found puzzling until Honelg called one of the men over. Honelg began using the stick to draw a rough map in the muddy ground at his feet. He was talking all the while, but Salamander couldn’t hear his words. He had no need, really, as the map made everything quite clear. Salamander broke the vision.
“Dalla, he’s sending messengers to Zakh Gral.”
“I was afraid of that.” Dallandra had gone white about the mouth. “You’re sure they’re going to Zakh Gral?”
“And where else in the Westlands would they be going? Certainly