The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [50]
His grandson couldn’t have looked more different. Short and stocky, Zandro had pale brown skin and brown hair that he wore in a mop of curls. His eyes had changed color since childhood; they were now a deep sunset orange, not quite as red as blood. When he saw Dalla, he turned his head to look at her sideways and grinned, revealing his mouthful of sharply pointed teeth.
“Dalla,” he said.
It was the first time Dalla had ever heard Zandro say anyone’s name, and Devaberiel smiled as proudly as if his grandson had just rattled off “The Burning of the Vale of Roses” or some other equally long and complex poem.
“Yes,” Dallandra said, “I’m Dalla. You’re Zandro.”
Zandro flicked his eyes his grandfather’s way, then giggled and trotted off, heading for the pack of children and dogs playing on the lakeshore.
“He’s got a long way to go yet,” Devaberiel said, “but we make progress.”
“You certainly do. I’ll admit to being surprised.”
“Valandario’s been helping me, actually.” Dev glanced around. “I don’t see her. She’s probably setting up her tent.”
“I’d best go greet her.”
Dallandra picked her way through the growing encampment. She had so many people to greet that she made slow progress, but at last she reached the edge of the camp. For the festival, she’d had some of the men position her tent away from the crowd, where she could find some quiet for her workings. As she’d expected, Valandario had done the same, picking a spot near but not too near to Dallandra’s own.
Val’s tent, so plain and gray on the outside, inside gleamed with color—elaborately woven panels and embroidered tent bags, mostly blue and green, touched here and there with gold, hung on the walls, while red, silver, and purple Bardek carpets and cushions lay strewn over the floor cloth. Sunlight from outside glowed through the walls. Entering the tent made Dalla think of walking into a giant jewelry box. Valandario herself sat on a red-and-gold carpet with jewels and gemstones spread out in front of her. She’d strewn them onto a scrying cloth, patched from Bardek silks. Some squares and triangles were plain, others embroidered with symbols, and here and there larger embroideries overlapped two squares. What they all meant only Valandario knew. She had derived this scrying system herself over a hundred years of hard work.
“Am I disturbing you?” Dallandra said.
“Not at all,” Val said. “In fact, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve done this reading twice today, and I can’t seem to interpret it.”
Dallandra sat down on the opposite side of the scrying cloth. Light came in through the smoke hole in the roof, caught Val’s golden hair, and made it gleam like the silks. She held up delicate hands, clasped over a fresh handful of semiprecious stones. She whispered an invocation of the Lords of Aethyr, then scattered the gems over the cloth. Amethysts, citrines, lapis beads, dark jades, and fire opals—they lay glittering on the patches of silk among the rarer jewels. Here and there, as ominous as wolves lurking around a flock of sheep, sat tear-shaped drops of obsidian.
“I don’t see any pattern at all,” Dallandra said.
“Neither do I.” Valandario looked up with a brief smile. “That’s the problem.”
“Which makes me assume that there’s trouble coming our way.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree. How many gems have fallen on their own colors? Only four out of twenty, and the black have dropped on the gold squares. I don’t like this.” Val shook her head. “I don’t like it at all.” She began gathering up the stones and shoving them into leather pouches. “I’ve spent too much time poring over it, and it still baffles me. The first spread was even more chaotic. Two stones rolled right off the cloth.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Something is happening—no, something is trying to happen, some large event is struggling to be born, and it doesn’t bode well.” She frowned as she pulled pouch strings tight. “That’s all I can say.”
“It matches the omen-dreams I’ve been having.”
“Then there’s nothing we can do but wait.”
“Wait and be cautious. I was wondering, do you