The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [31]
After the meal, Salamander went up to the little room in the broch that Lady Galla had given him, a wedge of the circular floor plan defined by woven wicker partitions, but private nonetheless, because the compartments to either side held stacks of curing firewood. He spread his blankets out on the mattress on the floor, then strolled over to the unshuttered window. He could see over the dun walls to the meadows off to the east, where a quarter moon was just rising out of mist. When he boosted himself up to sit on the wide stone windowsill, the Wildfolk came to join him, a flock of sprites in the air, a gaggle of gnomes on the floor and the sill.
“Well, this is a pretty predicament, isn’t it?” Salamander said to them. “I’ve seen my brother now, and I can’t say I cared for the sight.”
The Wildfolk all nodded in sad sympathy. Beyond the window the mist in front of the rising moon glowed and seemed to swirl in the distant light. Salamander focused upon it and let his mind fill with the memory of the silver wyrm, flying overhead on huge wings. In but an instant the memory turned into a vision. The silver dragon lay curled on a flat outcrop of rock among high mountains, his scales gleaming in the moonlight. He was perhaps eating something he held nestled against his side; Salamander could see the enormous head moving in a regular rhythm, licking something—licking a wound. The dragon moved restlessly, tossing his head, and Salamander could finally distinguish a dark streak on his side, oozing what appeared to be blood. In a moment the dragon went back to cleaning the wound with the only tool he had, his own tongue, a gesture so like that of a dog that Salamander felt profoundly nauseated.
His brother was living like an animal. No, his brother was an animal now, albeit a sapient creature who could speak, and in several languages at that. But he had no hands, no tools to ease his life, nothing but what his dragon form gave him. Salamander broke the vision. As if they felt his distress, the Wildfolk crowded closer.
“Ye gods, I feel sick and twice so,” Salamander said. “I think me I’d best talk with my master in the dweomer.”
This time, when he gazed into the moon-mist, he thought of Dallandra, his teacher and savior. At first he remembered her face; then he thought he might be seeing her face; all of a sudden he did see it. Her steel-gray eyes were narrow with concentration, and wisps of her ash-blonde hair hung untidily across her forehead and stuck to her cheeks. Yet, although the vision enlarged, the mist only thickened, swirling around her and threatening to hide her entirely.
“Dalla,” he thought-spoke to her in Elvish. “Dalla, it’s Ebañy. Is something wrong?”
He saw her flinch in surprise, then smile. She sat back on her heels and appeared to be looking straight at him. Through the mist he could see flickering light. Smoke and a fire?
“What do you mean, is something wrong?” she thought her answer back to him.
“I can barely see you for the smoke.”
“It’s not smoke. We’re still on the coast. It’s high tide, and the ocean’s etheric veil is running high with it. Let me sharpen the image.”
With that he could see her clearly. She was kneeling in front of the flickering light, which proved to be a small campfire.
“That’s much better,” he said. “You haven’t left? I thought you’d have all started north by now.”
“We had to wait for Carra to get back from Wm mglaedd. She and Meranaldar went there to talk history with the priests. We’ll ride out on the morrow, most likely. Where are you?”
“In Tieryn Cadryc’s dun once more. I’ve got strange news. I’ve seen our Rhodry, but I don’t think he recognized me. It was down in the Melyn River valley.”
“Does he look well?”
“No. I mean, by the Dark Sun herself! How could he look well in that body? He’s a dragon, all scaly.”
“Calmly now! Your thoughts are beginning to dance around.”
“Sorry.” Salamander took a deep breath. “But he seems to have hurt himself somehow. There’s something that looks like a dagger’s cut over one rib.”
“How very