The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [59]
“I don’t understand,” Gerran said softly. “Why is the gwerbret being so cursed stubborn, I wonder?”
“I wonder that myself.” Salamander paused for a mouthful of ale. “My worst fear is that Ridvar doesn’t want any more settlers down on the Great West Road. What if the king decides that the area needed a gwerbretrhyn of its own?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Let’s hope Ridvar’s thoughts are more honorable than mine.” Salamander finished his ale in one long swallow. “But gwerbretion rarely cherish the idea of rivals on their borders.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then stood up. “I’ll just be fetching my gear. I’ll keep an eye out for young Neb, too, when I’m down in town.”
Salamander was spared the task of searching for the tieryn’s scribe. He was leading his horse and packhorse out of the gates when he saw Neb, carrying a laden basket over one arm, puffing up the hill toward him. Beside him skipped the fat yellow gnome. In a shirt that was too big for him, with his skinny lad’s face glistening with sweat, Neb looked utterly unprepossessing. Yet Salamander knew that locked deep in his soul were latent dweomer powers so great that they bordered on the frightening.
“Ah, there you are,” Salamander said. “I need to say farewell, lad. I’ll be staying in Cengarn when you go back home with the warband.”
“Then may you fare well indeed,” Neb said. “I need to thank you yet once again. Clae and I owe you our lives.”
“Well, it’s a strange thing, this question of lives and gratitude.”
Neb stared at him.
“I mean,” Salamander said, “who knows whether you found me by luck or by wyrd? Sometimes the most random-seeming acts have hidden causes.”
“Er, I suppose so.”
“Consider the river Melyn, a broad and fast-flowing waterway, isn’t it? Yet its source must be some tiny spring or rivulet hidden from our eyes deep in the primeval forest. Wyrd may have such a secret font.”
“Well, true spoken, but—” Neb paused briefly. “But why are you rattling on about this?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? While I’m gone, you might ponder, reflect, contemplate, even meditate upon it.”
Neb’s mouth curled in a twist of anger. Salamander laughed and with a wave of his hand, clucked to his horses and led them away. He had to admit that he was enjoying this small bit of revenge upon Nevyn. And yet, Salamander reminded himself, Nevyn was right, wasn’t he? So was Jill, but you wouldn’t listen to either of them. The memories of his long years of madness rose up strong and made him shudder.
Neb stood staring after the gerthddyn as Salamander led his horse and packhorse down the steep road into town. Now what was all that about? Neb asked himself. Utter drivel, most like. During their ride north, Salamander had made other cryptic remarks centering around wyrd and memory. None of them had made any more sense than this set. And yet the gerthddyn’s talk had touched something in his mind—he could recognize an odd sort of truth in it even though he couldn’t quite understand what that truth might be. He did have the distinct feeling that this truth was somehow linked to his dreams about the most beautiful lass in all Deverry, though he couldn’t say where this feeling came from. Ponder it, Salamander had said. Meditate upon it. Neb decided that he’d best do just that.
The gatekeeper recognized him and let him into the keep without any challenge. As he was crossing the ward, the yellow gnome appeared and pointed at the sky with a skinny little hand. Neb looked up and saw only a solitary raven, circling far above the ward. With servants nearby, Neb decided that he’d best not try to speak to the gnome. It can’t be the raven that’s troubling him, Neb thought. There were always plenty of birds overhead all summer long. A spirit, perhaps, that only the gnome could see might have been hovering in the air, but there was nothing that Neb could do about it if so.
Since he’d been spending the tieryn’s money,