The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [8]
“Oh, I want there to be real dweomer gems,” Clae said. “And real dweomermasters, too.”
“Do you now?” Salamander gave him a grin. “Well, you never know, lad. You think about it when you’re falling asleep.”
Neb found a soft spot in the grass for his brother’s bed. He wrapped Clae up in one of the gerthddyn’s blankets and stayed with him until he was safely asleep, then rejoined Salamander at the fire.
“A thousand thanks for amusing my brother,” Neb said. “I’d gladly shower you with gold if I had any.”
“I only wish it were so easy to soothe your heart,” Salamander said.
“Well, good sir, that will take some doing, truly. First we lost our hearth kin, and now our uncle. It was all so horrible at first, it had me thinking we’d escaped the raiders only to live like beggars in the streets.”
“Now here, the folk in this part of the world aren’t so hardhearted that they’ll let you starve. One way or another, we’ll find some provision for you and the lad.”
“If I can get back to Trev Hael, I can make my own provision. After all, I can read and write. If naught else, I can become a town letter-writer and earn our keep that way.”
“Well, there you go! It’s a valuable skill to have.” Salamander hesitated on the edge of a smile. “Provided that’s the craft you want to follow.”
“Well, I don’t know aught else but writing and suchlike. I’m not strong enough to join a warband, and I wouldn’t want to weave or suchlike, so I don’t know what other craft there’d be for me.”
“You don’t, eh? Well, scribing is an honorable sort of work, and there’s not many who can do it out here in Arcodd.”
Neb considered Salamander for a moment. In the dancing firelight it was hard to be sure, but he could have sworn that the gerthddyn was struggling to keep from laughing.
“Or what about herbcraft?” Salamander went on. “Have you ever thought of trying your hand at that?”
“I did, truly. Fancy you thinking of that! When my da was still alive, I used to help the herbwoman in Trev Hael. I wrote out labels for her and suchlike, and she taught me a fair bit about the four humors and illnesses and the like. Oh, and about the four elements. Is that what you meant by elemental spirits?”
“It is. The different sorts of Wildfolk correspond to different elements. Hmm, the herbwoman must have been surprised at how fast you learned the lore.”
“She was. She told me once that it was like I was remembering it, not learning. How did you—”
“Just a guess. You’re obviously a bright lad.”
Salamander was hiding something—Neb was sure of it—but probing for it might insult their benefactor. “Govylla, her name was,” Neb went on. “She lived through the plague. Huh—I wonder if she’d take us in, Clae and me, as prentices? Well, if I can get back there. Some priests of Bel were traveling out here, you see, and so they took us to our uncle.”
“And some might well be traveling back one fine day. But for now, we need to get the news of raiders to the right ears. I happen to have the very ears in mind. I’ve been traveling along from the east, you see, and the last place I plied my humble trade was the dun of a certain tieryn, Cadryc, noble scion of the ancient and conjoined Red Wolf clan, who’s been grafted upon the root of a new demesne out here. When I left, everyone begged me to come back again soon, so we shall see if they were sincere or merely courteous. I have a great desire to inform the honorable tieryn about these raiders. Oh, that I do, a very great desire, indeed.”
As he stared into the fire, Salamander let his smile fade, his eyes darkening, his slender mouth as harsh as a warrior’s. In that moment Neb saw a different man; cold, ruthless, and frightening. With a laugh the gerthddyn shrugged the mood away and