The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [73]
“Ah. She’d not have her worshipers abandon their little ones, that’s certainly true. What did you do, start talking about her?”
“Not precisely. First of all, I had this arrow made when I was far from home, but one of our neighbors managed to get a look at it. That made them suspicious, and then just last year—” He paused for a dramatic shudder. “Maybe you’ve heard of the horrible disease that struck Trev Hael, a ghastly inflammation of the bowels, and it killed so many people? Well, my family was spared by some miracle. The neighbors ran to the meddling priests in the local temple. They were sure I’d worked witchcraft or suchlike to afflict the town, and I had to run for my life. My wife believed their lies and refused to come with me.”
“I see.” Yet the lord never moved, and his hand stayed on the sword hilt.
“I couldn’t have come straight here,” Salamander said. “It would have been too suspicious. I didn’t want to lead anyone to your dun.”
“You have my thanks for that.” Honelg took his hand away from the sword. “Come in, gerthddyn. You can wear her arrow here safely enough.”
With a smile of heartfelt relief, Salamander pinned the gold arrow to the collar of his shirt, then followed the lord inside the gates. The two men-at-arms sheathed their weapons, then began to shove the gates closed. A groom came running to take Salamander’s horses. A young page appeared and bowed to Honelg and Salamander impartially.
“We have a guest, Matto,” Honelg said. “Put his things in a chamber in the broch. Ask the chamberlain to help you.”
“I will, Da.” Matto ran off after the groom.
“My son, of course,” Honelg said to Salamander. “I can’t take pages in the usual way. Too dangerous.”
Inside the walls stood a single flat-roofed stone tower, wider at the base than the top, and a clutter of wooden sheds. Off to one side Salamander caught a glimpse of a long narrow building, two stories high and made of wood, that seemed to house stables and warband alike. Over everything hung the rich, moist smell of livestock.
Honelg escorted Salamander into the great hall, a shabby dusty half-round of a room, housing a scatter of rough tables and rickety benches. They sat down together at the honor table, Salamander on a bench, the lord in the only chair. A servant brought them mead in pottery goblets, but despite these small signs of respect, the lord sat bolt upright in his chair and looked his guest over. Not once did Honelg smile. Salamander knew that if he made one blunder the lord would kill him.
“Tell me about Zaklof,” Honelg said. “How did you come to know him?”
“I was in Cengarn plying my trade,” Salamander said, “when the gwerbret’s men returned with Zaklof. He’d made up his mind to die, but they were taunting him, waving food under his nose and trying to tempt him. He resisted them all, and with such calm.” He put urgency into his voice. “I had to know how he could be so calm, facing death.”
“It’s a marvel, truly, how the Holy Ones can do that,” Honelg said. “You said you spoke with him?”
“I did. There was a young woman working in the kitchen—her father lived in town—and she, too, was impressed with Zaklof. The gaol stood right out in the ward, you see, and so at night she went sneaking out to talk with him through the window in his cell. So I took to joining her.”
“Ah.” Honelg nodded, leaning back in his chair. “I wish I could have heard him myself.”
“Toward the end he grew weak, but his voice stayed steady, telling us of Alshandra’s power over death, and how he’d go join her soon. On the last day they brought him out of the cell to lie in the sun. It was his last wish, like. And I’ve never seen another man die like that, smiling, whispering a blessing upon his captors.”
“I heard about that, truly.” Honelg nodded again. “But here, I’m forgetting my courtesy. You must be hungry.” He turned in his chair and beckoned a servant. “Bring bread and meat for our guest!”
Salamander let out his breath in a soft sigh of relief.
The servant had just set out the food when a woman,