The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [205]
The greatest blessing that she could imagine now would be the safe return of young Matyc, but whether such could ever happen lay in the laps of the gods indeed.
Inside Dallandra’s tent the air, stifling from the coming storm, weighed on Salamander like a wool cloak, but by staying inside they could talk about dweomer, or even work it, away from Deverry men with the exception, of course, of Neb. Dallandra had made a silver dweomer light to hang near the smoke hole. Gnats and moths swarmed around it, and a trio of sprites were amusing themselves by trying to catch the insects with their tiny fingers.
“I keep thinking about that dark dweomerman,” Dallandra said. “My worst fear is that he’s somehow or other gotten himself inside Honelg’s dun.”
“Now, that I doubt very much, O princess of powers perilous,” Salamander said. “He certainly wasn’t there when I was.”
“That’s some reassurance, at least. Have you scried the dun out lately?”
“I have. No sign of him there.”
“There’s been none at the temple either. No one’s ever rebuilt that astral construct, whatever it was. The priests seem to be devoting all their time and energy to keep the cattle safe from Arzosah. They’ve started bringing them into the temple grounds at night.”
“Which must be a great disappointment to our wyrm.”
“I suppose, but that’s not my point. If they have time to worry about their precious cows, they’re not likely to be working dark dweomer against us. Besides, that many animals give off a tremendous cloud of etheric magnetism. I’ll have to be very careful if I go there again—go in the body of light, I mean.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re quite right. A cloud of magnetic force like that could make a working very tricky.”
“Have you seen anything suspicious at Zakh Gral?”
“I’ve not. I scry them out every time I think of them, but they keep a-building as if they don’t have a care in the world. There’s been no sign of the raven mazrak either.”
“I hope he’s not flying west to warn the fortress.”
“He can’t, O mistress of mighty magicks. They’d kill him on the spot. Rocca made it abundantly clear that Alshandra abhors mazrakir above all other kinds of dweomer.”
“Well and good, then. I wonder about Zaklof, though. You told me that his prophecy about Cadryc’s son was genuine.”
“It was, truly, but they see all and every sign of dweomer as a gift from their goddess. If Zaklof were here, no doubt he’d tell us solemnly that he’d only lent Alshandra his voice for a moment. A mazrak, however, couldn’t claim any such thing.”
For Neb’s sake, they were speaking in Deverrian, because Neb and Meranaldar were working with wax tablets directly under the dweomer light. Neb was teaching his fellow scribe how to write in Deverrian. Although both their voices were pleasant enough, Salamander found himself growing profoundly irritated with what they were saying, tedious details such as “you’ve got to make the tail on this letter a little longer” or “try to make a true circle when you do that one.”
“Ye gods,” Salamander said. “I feel positively overwrought tonight. I keep brooding over Adranna’s remark about bearing the last witness. You know, Gerran keeps saying that Honelg is daft, and I begin to think he’s right. There’s something oddly unclean about Alshandra’s worship.”
“Of course there is! She wasn’t a goddess at all. Her cult’s making their people die for a handful of lies and kill for a shabby handful more.”
“Now that is a splendid way of putting it. Most tidy, pertinent, and apt.”
From outside they heard men talking in Elvish. Calonderiel swept open the tent flap and stuck his head in. “The dragon wants to speak with you, beloved,” he said in Elvish. “She says she’s come up with an idea.”
“About what?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.” Cal paused for a scowl. “I’m