The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [53]
“Now, they did ask her what Horsekin were doing, traveling so far south of their own country. She said she’d been brought along to cook for a group of important officials, whatever that may mean, traveling with a large armed escort. They were looking for something, she said, a good place to build something. She didn’t know what. They wouldn’t have told the likes of her any details.”
“My worst fear begins to materialize before me, but you have my thanks.”
“Your worst fear? It ranks high among mine, and Cal’s, too.”
“No doubt.” His image turned thoughtful. “Have you seen Zandro yet?”
“Yes, indeed I have, and here’s some good news. He can call some people by name now. He knows his own, and mine, and of course your father’s and a few of your father’s friends.”
“Splendid!”
“And he’s become quite protective of the little changelings. He and Elessi lead the little ones like a pack of wolves. They run through the camp together and laugh at everything. Zan’s not hit anyone or pulled hair or any such nasty trick, not since we’ve been here.”
“Wonderful! That gives me some hope he’ll find happiness of a sort.”
“Me, too.” Dalla felt suddenly weary. “When I worked so hard at getting those souls born, I didn’t stop to think of what they’d be like in their very first incarnation. Poor little spirits! They should have taken flesh when the world was new.”
“Indeed. In time they’ll grow full minds.”
“So we can hope. I honestly don’t know how many lives it will take them. But Zan at least has become very nicely behaved. Dev has the most amazing patience.”
“Now. He certainly never showed any with me.”
“Well, he was much younger then. He didn’t know how to treat a small child.”
“I suppose he did the best he could, given that my mother didn’t want me.”
Dalla could feel the bitterness in his thoughts—still, after nearly two hundred years. “She didn’t have much choice,” she said. “The fault lies in the way Deverry men treat their women, or so your father told me.”
“Perhaps. I don’t truly remember her, anyway, except that she was pink and soft and warm, and her name was Morri.”
“That wasn’t your mother. That was your nursemaid. Dev did tell me that much, but you know, it’s odd, he truly didn’t want to tell me more.”
In the image of his face she could see confusion, and his thoughts swirled round like autumn leaves, picked up and blown in circles by the wind, until, like leaves the wind has dropped, his mind steadied again. “Well, it hardly matters now,” Salamander thought to her. “But sometime when we have a moment to spare for talking about things long past, I’d like to hear the story.”
“Your father would most likely tell you more than he’d tell me.”
Salamander’s image looked profoundly sad.
“But we could always ask him for the tale together,” Dallandra said hurriedly. “I’m surprised you’ve not heard it already.”
“So am I. Continually, perennially, and eternally surprised, every time the subject comes up between me and the esteemed progenitor.” His face-image displayed a forced smile. “You would doubtless be even more surprised at the speed with which he can leap away from the subject, like a cat when someone empties a bucket of water nearby.” His image smiled in unconvincing dismissal. “But it matters naught. Tomorrow we leave for Cengarn. I’ll keep you informed of what happens there.”
Abruptly Salamander broke the link. She’d touched on an old, deep wound, Dallandra realized, and one that, in time, she would have to help him heal.
I’m surprised you’ve not heard it already. After he broke the scrying-link, Salamander realized that his right hand had clenched into a fist and that he was tempted to throw a hard punch into the stones of the tieryn’s wall. A gaggle of gnomes materialized at his feet and raised little paws, as if signaling caution.
“Yes, smashing flesh into stone means one thing only,” Salamander said in Elvish. “The stone wins.”
With the Wildfolk trailing after, he climbed down from the wall and headed for the broch. Thinking about his childhood always filled him with