The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [74]
“Evan saw Zaklof die,” Honelg said.
“You did?” Adranna leaned forward. “Could you tell me about it? I don’t mean to be rude, but—”
“Not rude at all,” Salamander said hastily. “I should be honored.”
Fortunately, he remembered a good many secondhand details, and this time through, he elaborated the story. Adranna listened, wide-eyed, her mouth slack, while Honelg nodded to himself at intervals, as if savoring the tale. Salamander began to feel more guilty than fearful, deceiving people who had entrusted their souls to a spirit he knew to be naught but an imposter.
Alshandra had possessed dweomer beyond the power of any human master of that craft. Although she’d used those powers coldly and deliberately to get herself worshiped, a goddess she wasn’t, merely a strange spirit of the race known to the elves as Guardians. In the end she’d proved just as mortal as any elf or human, too, but her worshipers had refused to believe the truth, that she’d been defeated and slain. Salamander had never understood why, or why her legend continued to spread after her death. There was no doubting that it had grown in strength here in the Northlands. The lord and lady both sat as still as if they’d been ensorcelled by his story, until he finished with a small sob and a broken sigh.
“I heard that Zaklof’s body smelled of roses,” Adranna said, “not of rotting flesh at all.”
“I wouldn’t know, my lady,” Salamander said, quite truthfully for a change. “After he died, they carried him away, and I wasn’t close enough to tell.”
Adranna plucked a handkerchief from her kirtle and wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s so sad,” she murmured, “dying a captive.”
“Ah, but we’re all captives, prisoners in our flesh.” Honelg turned to Salamander. “Zaklof visited us several times, you see. I remember him as a strong man, and so full of life, but we know he’s now where we all want to be, free of this cursed rotten world at last, with her in our true home.”
“Truly,” Salamander said. “He crossed over into her kingdom on a bridge of prayers.”
“It’s a good thing you tell tales for your living,” Honelg went on. “Can you stand to tell it again? Tonight we’re having a very special guest.” He shot a meaningful glance at his wife. “I think me she’ll want to hear it. Zaklof died a true witness to our faith.”
“I’m sure she will. And, Evan, you speak so beautifully.”
“My thanks, my lady. You’re very kind to say so.”
At dinner that night, Salamander met the rest of the lord’s family, his daughter Treniffa and his elderly mother, Lady Varigga. His son Matyc served everyone like a page, then sat down and joined in the meal. From their talk Salamander realized that even the lowliest servant in the dun believed in Alshandra and her false promises. Everlasting life in a glorious version of the Otherlands had its appeal, Salamander realized, but still he wondered why they would believe so fervently in things they’d never seen. The twenty men of Honelg’s warband, eating on the other side of the hall, drank a toast to the goddess’ name, marking themselves as believers as well.
So, apparently, were all the farmers and their families who sharecropped land in Honelg’s demesne. Just as the meal was being cleared away, the farm folk began arriving, walking into the great hall in threes and fours, sitting down on the floor and chatting with each other so casually that Salamander realized they came here often. Among them he recognized Marth and a few other villagers.
“It’s for the services.” Apparently the aged Lady Varigga had noticed him studying