The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [47]
“A prophecy? From a priest?”
“A priest of a sort, I suppose you’d call him. It was what? about ten summers ago now. The Horsekin were raiding up north, and the old gwerbret summoned his allies. This was the raid where he was killed, come to think of it. Anyway. We managed to find their stinking ugly camp, and we fell on them by surprise and slaughtered the guards and their reserves. We freed the human captives, some of the gwerbret’s farm folk, and then some others who’d been Horsekin slaves.” Cadryc paused, looking away as if getting his memories in order. “Now, among the human men was this one scabby fellow, dressed all in rags, and his feet were all swollen and crusted with calluses, just like he’d never worn shoes in his life. Turned out he hadn’t, actually. But all the folk who’d been born slaves treated him like he was a king. The gwerbret’s farm folk told us that he was a priest of their cursed foreign goddess.”
“Alshandra again?” Salamander said. “Huntress of Souls?”
“The same one, truly. Like that gold arrow we found in the burned village.”
“Indeed. Do go on. This is most fascinating, engrossing, mesmerizing, and the like.”
“All of that, eh? Well, now, this priest fellow refused to eat. Said he’d starve himself to death rather than put up with being our prisoner. A lot of gall, if you ask me, since his cursed Horsekin had been taking our folk prisoner! We thought about killing him, of course, but it’s risky, killing priests. What if their god decides to take a little vengeance, eh?”
“Quite right. You can’t be too careful.”
“So anyway, we lords got together and talked about forcing him to eat. But I spoke up and said let him do what he wanted, if he was so blasted keen on dying. I could see the indignity of it, being tied up and having gruel poured down your throat or suchlike, and so the other lords agreed. And the scabby fellow thanked me, if you can imagine it! Thanked me for letting him starve to death! In return, says he, I’ll give you a prophecy. Keep your son safe till his nineteenth summer begins. Do that and he’ll live a fair long time. Let him fight before that, and he’ll die young.” Cadryc looked down at the ground and shrugged again. “No doubt you think me a fool for believing the filthy bastard.”
“I don’t,” Salamander said. “I can see where a prophecy like that would chill a father’s heart. What happened to the priest?”
“He starved, just like he wanted. Took him a long time, but he went happily enough at the end.”
“Do you remember his name, by any chance?”
“I don’t, though I can still see his face clear as clear in my mind.”
“And how old is Mirryn?”
“Eighteen summers now.” Cadryc looked up. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve been keeping track. Every Beltane I put a mark on my saddle peak, just a little nick in the leather.”
“You know, I can’t say why, but I have this feeling that you’re right to keep him out of the fighting.”
“Do you now? Then my thanks. I just can’t bring myself to ignore it, and ye gods, his nineteenth summer will start next year anyway. He’s the only son I have.”
The thing that Salamander couldn’t admit to the tieryn was that he’d received an omen of his own. When he was listening to Cadryc describe the prophecy, he felt an icy cold ripple down his back, a warning from the dweomer that indeed, it had been a true speaking. Too bad that wretched priest died, he thought. He must have had dweomer, and I would have loved to have asked him a few questions.
“What about those rescued farm women?” Salamander said. “Are any of them still with us?”
“As far as I know. They were all young women then. Why?”
“Because I love a good tale. Indeed, my very living depends upon my having a store of good tales. ‘Lasses captured by Horsekin but saved in the nick of time!’ That should extract a few coins from those who lead safe but dull lives.”
“You could be right about that, indeed. Well, my thanks for listening, gerthddyn, but I’ll ask you not to spread my part of the tale around.”
“Don’t worry, Your Grace, I’d never