The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [174]
“I wonder if I should have let him try this working,” Dallandra said. “It’s immensely complicated.”
“If there be anyone who might succeed in this,” Niffa said, “Ebañy, he be the one.”
“Let’s hope so! It’s a pity that he can’t bring the image through to the physical, where everyone in that wretched army could see it, but he’d have to have the power of one of the Guardians for that.”
“Or one of the gods, if such there be.”
The gods were very much on Niffa and Dallandra’s minds that evening. During the day, as they’d wandered around Cerr Cawnen, listening to the townsfolks’ opinions on the proposed evacuation, they’d heard a number of worries about deserting Cerr Cawnen’s old gods, those who lived under the lake, or up on Citadel, or in the water meadows that surrounded the town. Many citizens had a god they particularly favored, it seemed, whether it lived in the clouds or in a particular ancient tree clinging to the rocky island.
“Your people believe in an amazing number of gods,” Dallandra said to Niffa.
“Those that do believe at all.” Niffa frowned, thinking something through. “Most, they do know that what some call gods be truly spirits and little more. This all does trouble my heart, Dalla. Not till today did we hear people fearing to offend those spirits and godlings. I wonder if Artha be behind this, stirring up the fear with strong words.”
After the evening meal they took candle lanterns and walked across the plaza to Artha’s domain. As they were making their way down the wooden steps to the shrine, they met Cleddrik, coming up with a lantern of his own. He raised it high, peered at Dallandra, and flinched so sharply that he nearly missed the step below him and tumbled down. Just in time he caught himself, recovered his balance, and mumbled a “Good eve to you.”
Vandar’s spawn. The Alshandrite name for the Westfolk rose in Dallandra’s mind. Is that what he thinks I am?
“And a good eve to you,” Niffa said. “Come you to lay an offering to the gods?”
“I so did, truly,” Cleddrik said. “Ye gods, I be so tired tonight, missing that step as I did! Do forgive me, but I must return to my villagers.”
Dallandra and Niffa stood to one side and let him climb up past them. They continued down to find Artha standing outside her cottage door. She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at them.
“What be so wrong?” Niffa said.
“I did spend much time today,” Artha said, “thinking upon what you did tell me concerning the Horsekin. I do think me that if we did take the holy altar with us, in a wagon or suchlike, the gods might well travel south along with their folk.”
Niffa grinned at her. “I do wager we can find a wagon, indeed. The farmers from Penli, they did bring their plow horses, and they can pull a fair heavy load.”
“If their masters do let them. That fellow from Penli, Clod Rik or whatever his name may be, I like him not. He were here just now, nattering about the gods, begging me to tell the folk to stay behind safe walls.” Artha suddenly smiled. “I do think me that it were his nags and whines that did change my mind to your way of thinking.”
The three of them shared a laugh. Dallandra wondered suddenly if Cleddrik were lurking above on the plaza to eavesdrop, and if so, if he could hear them. She turned and glanced back but saw no one on the wooden steps or at the plaza edge.
“Well and good, then,” Niffa said. “Let us talk more upon the morrow morn. The blacksmith, he does have two wagons, and no doubt will gladly offer one to you and the gods.”
Neither Dallandra nor Niffa spoke until they’d gained the plaza and walked halfway across it, well out of the spirit talker’s earshot. Dallandra kept watch for Cleddrik or, more likely, the glimmer of his lantern as he hurried off, but she saw neither. At the public well, they paused in their pool of lantern light and looked around them—no one in sight on the wide cobbled expanse.
“I like this not,” Niffa said. “This Cleddrik—I ken not his heart or mind.”
“No more can I,” Dallandra said. “He’s so terrified that his fear