The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [217]
With a cold feeling around his heart Salamander began to search the bed chambers. Sure enough, he found her at last in her little dowager’s nest at the top of the tower. She was sprawled on the bed in a drying soak of blood, a red-streaked dagger lying beneath her flaccid right hand. She’d slit her wrists.
“Bearing the last witness.” Salamander felt as if the words were choking him. “I think me we’ve discovered what that means.” He walked over to the corpse and closed its eyes. “May you find peace, my lady. I beg you, forgive me for turning traitor to your hospitality.”
Since none of the Westfolk had been wounded, Dallandra had been helping the chirurgeons with the Deverry men. She forced her mind to concentrate on the work, to see only the work, to stay stubbornly on the physical plane and never open up the Sight. Yet despite her efforts, she was always aware of the dead. Their etheric doubles floated through the hall, or hovered over their bodies, or clung to those of their friends who still lived. They were desperate to be seen, to be recognized by the living in the vain hope that somehow or other, they would wake from a dream and find that they still lived themselves.
There was nothing she could do for them. She’d tried to help Deverry men before, after other battles, but none of the dead would believe what she told them or follow her up to the river of life and death and the meadows of pale white flowers along its shores. Eventually they would cross it whether they followed her or not, but they would have spared themselves much grief and panic if only they could have brought themselves to listen to a voice speaking from the center of a silver flame. At times she considered trying to build a second body of light, one in human form, but it would have taken her a great deal of effort and just possibly have made her first, preferred form unstable.
As well as Warryc, two of Ridvar’s men were dead, and six others had suffered wounds or, in one case, a broken arm from slipping and falling on blood-soaked ground. The massive casualties came from Honelg’s ranks. His sworn riders had all died as their vows demanded, but most of the servants and villagers had lived through the battle. Not all of the Westfolk archers had aimed to kill men who wore no armor and had barely a weapon to defend themselves. Dallandra knew how to cut an arrow out of a wound in a way that would minimize the damage rather than making it worse. She had an eager audience when she shared that knowledge.
The chirurgeons had finished doing what they could when Gwerbret Ridvar walked in. He found his own riders and spoke to each one, kneeling down from time to time to clasp their hands and thank them. When he saw the two dead riders, he raised his hands in the air and prayed over their bodies, just a few brief words, but it made the wounded smile in thanks to see their friends honored. Ridvar also came over to the chirurgeons to thank them personally for aiding his men.
“Tell me,” the gwerbret said. “Do any of you recognize Raldd? He was a groom, and he’s the traitor who rode ahead to warn this dun.”
No one did—a groom was beneath the notice of learned men like chirurgeons and fighting men as well.
“One of the pages might,” a chirurgeon said. “They were helping with the horses back at Dun Cengarn.”
“Ask Clae,” Dallandra said. “He’s the one who spotted Raldd and gave us what warning we had.”
“Indeed?” Ridvar said. “I never heard that. Well, I’ll have to thank the lad. Who’s his father?”
Dallandra considered the question—doubtless Ridvar was assuming that Clae was the usual sort of page, the son of a noble-born man. To tell the truth, that he was only a scribe’s brother, would make Ridvar dismiss him. “He’s a younger son, Your Grace, and his father’s dead,” she said. “Tieryn Cadryc took him in.”
“Ah. I’ll send someone to speak to Cadryc, then.”
With a wave all round the young gwerbret strode out of the hall. Dallandra found a bucket of reasonably clean water and began washing the blood and bits of flesh