The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [51]
“I don’t see why not. Dev always enjoys exchanging lore with the prince’s scribe, and I’d be glad of the chance do some more reading in your books.”
“Good. If we keep traveling fast, there won’t be a problem finding enough food and water for both herds.”
“And it seems to me that fast is the way we should be traveling, for a lot of reasons.” Val patted the pouch of stones with one hand. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll leave a day before you and then camp where there’s plenty of grass. Once you catch up, we’ll head straight north. I’d best tell Dev now, so he doesn’t plan an extra performance.”
They went to look for Devaberiel and found him a little ways from camp, where he was standing and practicing his latest declamation with only the grass for an audience.
“Clinging like lice on the backs of hoofed death—” Dev broke off in midsentence, then grinned at the two women. “Not, of course, that I was speaking of you.”
“I assumed that,” Valandario said. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve changed our plans. We’ll be leaving the festival a little early, then joining the prince’s alar.”
“All right.” Dev shrugged, smiling. “Whatever you two think best.”
Dallandra left them discussing details and walked back to camp.
Over the next several days, some of the earlier arrivals rode out, taking their stock to better pasture. New alarli rode in to take their places, and one of them brought a changeling infant with them. The bewildered father, Londrojezry, escorted Dallandra out to the horse herd to see the child before he’d even unpacked his travois. On top of a pile of tied-down blankets, the baby lay in a cradle of leather stretched over a wooden frame, and his purple eyes showed nothing but suspicion.
“He hates to be touched,” Lon said. “He screams if you try to pick him up.”
“How has your wife been feeding him?” Dalla said. “He doesn’t look malnourished.”
“She has to express her milk into a bowl. First she dipped it up with a bit of cloth and gave him that to suck. Now, and my thanks to the Star Goddesses, he’ll take it from a spoon. But it’s still exhausting her, it takes so long.”
“He was born when?”
“Six moons ago.”
“Try feeding him something other than milk. Deverry oats cooked to a fine paste, and broths.”
“My thanks, Wise One.” For a moment Lon stood looking down at the cradle with tear-filled eyes. “I wanted a son so badly.” Then he stooped, picking up the cradle. “I’ll tell my wife about the food.”
Dallandra watched him hurry away. She’d seen this type of changeling before, and she knew that nothing but more grief lay ahead for him and his father both. They became utterly withdrawn as they aged, this kind of child. Some wandered away from their alarli and were never seen again; others drifted along at the edge of their parents’ camps, accepting food or the occasional piece of clothing but nothing more, never speaking, never reaching out.
And yet, as she walked back to camp, she found herself wrestling with a strange feeling: envy. Not envy of having a changeling, certainly, but—of what? Lon’s wife loved that child so much she was draining her own life to keep him alive, and he’d never repay her with anything but grief. But would the grief truly matter to her? To love someone that much. Is that what I envy? Dallandra wondered at herself. It seemed a sick sort of thing, that kind of love.
Later that evening, Dalla stood just beyond a circle of firelight and watched Lon feeding his son a broth of oats boiled with milk. The wife, Allanaseradario, hunkered nearby and watched as the child slurped up the food. Now and then she would wipe its sticky chin with a bit of rag. Dalla felt all her familiar disgust with the mess and raw crudity of caring for infants. I made my choice, she thought. I took the dweomer willingly. Yet the envy came back, squeezing her heart, it seemed, as she stood in the shadows, looking into the circle of firelight. Finally she turned away with a toss of her head only to realize that