The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [183]
From the edge of the crowd someone called out, “The litter’s here, Your Holiness.” The mob parted and let four priests through. They carried a litter made of long poles with a blanket attached.
“No more to see here, lads!” the prince called out. “We need to get on the road.”
Murmuring assent, the men began to drift away, heading back to their various encampments. Dallandra turned her Sight upon the prince. His aura glowed strongly and clearly, a faint yellow heavily streaked with red, a typical coloration for warrior lords. Apparently Neb had ended the priest’s attempt at ensorcellment before Govvin had managed to sink his claws in deep. Govvin knew the techniques of ensorcellment, but he lacked power to put into his spell. She shut down the Sight, and as she started back to camp, Prince Voran fell in beside her.
“I wonder why the old man starves himself,” Voran remarked.
“He may just have worms,” Dallandra said. “But I’d guess that he fasts as part of a ritual. Prolonged fasting is supposed to give priests visions of their gods.”
“Ah, I see. I didn’t know that.” He smiled again, but ruefully. “If I’d known the old man had the falling sickness, I’d have minded my words a little more.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t blame yourself, Your Highness. You didn’t know, and besides, I’d say he deserves whatever he gets.”
“I’ll admit to having similar thoughts. Very well, then, and my thanks.”
With a pleasant wave, Voran strode off. He’s a strong man, Dallandra thought, and it’s a blasted good thing, too! Still, she decided that she’d best keep an eye on him from then on, just in case Govvin’s attempt at dweomer wasn’t as clumsy as it appeared.
The army had finished breaking camp and was assembling in the road when Arzosah finally returned. She swooped over the line of march, then settled into a nearby field. Dallandra and Salamander ran out to join her.
“My apologies for being late,” Arzosah said. “I seem to have overslept. Perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten both cows last night, but I did hate to waste any.”
“I take it they were delicious?” Salamander said.
“They were indeed. Grain fed and nice and fat.” The dragon licked her black lips.
“Grain fed?” Dallandra raised an eyebrow. “They eat well, those priests.”
“Or else they sell the cows for coin,” Salamander said, “but I’m not sure where the market would be. In big Deverry cities like Trev Hael, the wealthier merchants and guildsmen will pay more for better beef, but out here—” He shrugged his shoulders.
“They may barter them outright,” Dallandra said. “There’s a certain kind of man who eats his meat raw.”
“That’s true.” Salamander winced with a little shiver. “But something else has just occurred to me, to wit, taxes for the central temple down in Dun Deverry. Have you ever seen it? They’ve gilded the walls in a pattern of tree branches and oak leaves. The statues of Bel may be wood underneath, but they, too, drip with gold and jewels. The priests? Ah, the priests! Their simple tunics and cloaks are patched together from scraps. It’s just that the scraps are velvets and silks. The sickles they carry—”
“That’s enough,” Dallandra interrupted. “I see your point. Someone has to pay for all of that.”
“Indeed. And, as usual in this world, the coin’s extracted from the hides of those least able to afford it.”
“Which reminds me,” Arzosah said, “I took several turns over the temple on my way to the pasture. They’re up to somewhat, all right. When I flew directly over, I could feel—” She paused, and the black tip of her tongue stuck out of her enormous mouth like a cat’s while she thought the matter through. “I’m not sure what I felt, truly. It was a pulsing sensation, as if the etheric was beating like a heart. But I didn’t see any etheric sigils, nor any traces of astral domes, naught so obvious.”
“What about deformed Wildfolk?” Dallandra said.
“How can anyone possibly tell if Wildfolk are deformed?” Arzosah said. “They’re always ugly.”
“True, but