The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [182]
“Get the chirurgeon!” the prince said. “His holiness is having a seizure.”
Govvin’s guards surrounded the priest and tried to shield him from the gawking onlookers, but Govvin swore and raged in a steady stream. Two of his guards dropped their staves and caught Govvin by the arms. Apparently they, too, thought that the priest had taken ill, judging from the soothing words they were chanting like a spell. “Just rest, please lie down, we’re right here, Your Holiness, please lie down!”
“Enough,” Neb said quietly.
The Wildfolk vanished, except for the fat yellow gnome, who came skipping back to Neb’s side. Govvin let out one last whimper, then fainted into his guards’ arms. Voran’s chirurgeon came running with his apprentice, burdened with two bulging sacks, trotting after. Someone hurried up behind Neb and called his name—Salamander.
“Neb, come with me.” There was a bark of command in the gerthddyn’s normally pleasant voice. “Now, before that misbegotten miscreant wakes up.”
“I want to see what happens,” Neb said. “Why leave?”
“So he won’t recognize you, you dolt!” Salamander laid a heavy hand on Neb’s shoulder. “Dallandra wants to talk to you.”
“Oh.” Neb turned cold. “I see.”
Neb let Salamander chivvy him along at a trot until they were well away from the priest and the crowd around him. They slowed to a walk, but a fast one, and found Dallandra waiting in front of her tent. The three of them ducked inside.
“He was ensorcelling the prince,” Neb said. “I had to stop him.”
“I know that,” Dallandra said. “I was watching from a distance. I’m going to go have a look at Voran and see if his aura needs clearing. But I don’t want the priest knowing who summoned the Wildfolk.”
“Indeed,” Salamander joined in. “I just hope he didn’t notice Neb before they attacked.”
“So do I,” Neb said. “They were swarming around me, but it all happened so fast that I don’t know if he saw or not.”
Salamander groaned under his breath.
“You can’t protect yourself yet,” Dallandra said, “but I can handle his malice if he tries it on me. I’m going to lay a false trail.”
Dallandra took a sack of medicinals with her so she could pretend that she was merely offering to help the chirurgeon, then summoned Wildfolk. Sylphs and sprites streamed after her like an icy cloud following a north wind as she strode through the camp. When she reached the side of the road, where the incident had happened, she found a small mob of men and Westfolk gathered in a rough circle. At an order from Prince Voran, the crowd parted to let her through.
In a clear area in their midst, His Holiness Govvin was sitting up, slumped against another priest, who knelt behind him to support his back. Blue and purple bruises pocked Govvin’s face and arms. The chirurgeon and his apprentice were kneeling to either side. Voran, who was standing nearby, waved Dallandra over. The cloud of Wildfolk followed her.
“His holiness has refused our aid,” Voran said. “His other men have gone back to the temple to fetch a litter.”
“He probably needs to rest more than anything,” Dallandra said. “And to eat more.” She turned and spoke to the two priests. “Your Holiness, you really must have nourishing broths and gruels. See if you can manage a little breast of fowl, chopped fine, too.”
“She’s quite right,” the chirurgeon said. “If you won’t let me examine you, Your Holiness, you could at least take our Westfolk healer’s advice.”
Neither priest responded. Govvin’s attendant glanced at her, then away, but he seemed indifferent rather than resentful. Govvin was so exhausted that Dalla could tell nothing from his aura, which had shrunk around him to a faint gray-green haze. He raised his head and gave her a look of such malice that she stepped back. There was no dweomer in it, just hatred, a