The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [189]
“In the name of the Light,” she called out in a wave of thought. “I banish thee!”
With a thrust of will she sent it floating toward the gate. She was expecting the tunnel to simply vanish when the two collided. The pentagram sailed forward, touched the tunnel shape, and burst into black flame. The tunnel exploded.
Force, pure force that burned like acid surged and caught her. She felt her body of light rip and tear as a great wave flung her upward, tumbled her this way and that, threatened to throw her into the stars themselves, or so it seemed to her as she careened this way and that. Her useless shield fell away in tatters. All of her concentration, all of her will went into strengthening the silver cord that linked her to her body, so far below. If that broke, she would be dead beyond recovery. Wave after wave of power, a burning power, battered her. The silver cord was stretching thin. She had no choice but to retreat, to spin away, to follow the cord before it snapped and rush back to her body. The waves of force followed her, burning, tearing.
Someone was coming to meet her, another silver cloak of flame—Ebañy. From his own substance he was weaving a rope of light. He tossed it, she caught it, and she felt his energy flowing toward her, renewing her torn body of light. Together they spiraled down toward the Westfolk encampment. She could see the auras of men, glowing beneath them, and dots of fire between the tents—safety at last. She had just the energy left to look back and see the remains of the tunnel collapsing inward. As they fell, they dissolved back into the blue light. She had closed the gate.
Down and down—suddenly they were in the tent, hovering over their bodies. To her surprise she realized that her body was lying twisted on the opposite side of the tent from her blankets. Salamander’s lay flopped on its back, arms outstretched. He drifted over it, then dropped. The flame that encased him shrank, dwindled, turned invisible. The body below sat up, its aura glowing gold, though a fair bit less brightly than it had been before.
Salamander got up, staggered over to her physical body, and dragged it back to the blankets. He laid her out like a corpse—though the silver cord hung unbroken though dangerously thin—in order to minimize her pain when she returned to her flesh. Dallandra slid down the cord, felt her consciousness slip free of the body of light, then fell gratefully into the physical world. A click, a rushy hiss, and she was back, aching in every muscle and tendon, with Salamander leaning over her.
“My thanks,” she whispered. “You saved my life.”
He smiled, too exhausted to speak.
From outside she heard a voice—Cal’s voice—yelling and threatening Neb in two languages with vile things if he didn’t step aside at once. Dallandra staggered to her feet and managed to walk to the tent door. She flung it aside to find Calonderiel grabbing Neb by the throat.
“Stop it!” she said. “He’s just following my orders.”
“Thank every god in the sky!” Cal said and let Neb go. “You’re alive!”
Neb staggered back, rubbing his throat. With a shock Dallandra realized that half the Westfolk camp was standing around gawking and that the other half was running to see what the disturbance was.
“We were going to stop the banadar from killing him,” one of the archers said, pointing to Neb. “We’d just got here when you came out.”
“I see,” Dallandra said. “My thanks. Why don’t you all go away again? There’s nothing wrong anymore. Neb, bless you! Come in, and Cal, you, too.”
With Dallandra safe, Calonderiel turned apologetic. He insisted on arranging the softest cushions for Neb to