The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [186]
He wondered if she spoke the truth. He had never known her to lie outright, but her definition of falsehood tended to be far narrower than his. He managed to calm himself at last. His tail quieted and lay still. One thing he’d not miss about dragonhood, he decided, was that wretched appendage and its independent mind.
“Now then,” Arzosah said. “Dallandra told me that you were going to take Ebañy back to Cerr Cawnen.”
“I am, yes.”
“No, you’re not. I will, and, yes, I promise you that I’ll do naught to harm him. He’s your bloodkin, and that means much to me even if it means naught to you.” Her tail raised and slapped down hard, scattering torn grass. “I should have known the wretched elves would find some way to break my heart.”
“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing he could think of to say at first. He forced himself to find something better. “I’ll always hold you dear, you know. It’s nothing you’ve done.”
She was staring at him so reproachfully that he could barely look her way. He found himself remembering the night that Jill had left him, so many years ago now, and how bitterly he’d wept as soon as she could no longer hear him. He doubted if Arzosah could weep, but in her own way she was suffering. Finally, he could stand her sad gaze no longer.
“I’ve got a dead horse back at camp,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
“I was until you told me about this.” She hissed, and her tail thrashed of its own accord. “But I suppose I could get a haunch or two down.”
“Then follow me back.” He turned and began his run downhill before she could say more.
He launched himself into the air, glancing back to see her following. He hardly knew what he was feeling at that moment: regret that he’d caused Arzosah pain, certainly, and a sneaking hope that Dallandra would be unable to reverse the spell, but at the same time, a more urgent hope that she’d succeed. I can’t go on like this, he told himself. Better to die from the dweomer than risk staying a dragon much longer. For the first time, he realized how close he’d come to losing, just as Dallandra had warned him, his human soul.
During their last day in Cerr Cawnen, the citizens finished gathering what goods and supplies they could carry. Some few had wagons, more had handcarts, and even more could scrounge up a wheelbarrow. The town blacksmith fired up his forge and began binding wooden wheels with iron strakes. The council barge took Prince Dar and his escorts on a tour of the crannogs and wharfs that ringed the lake. The archers helped the townsfolk wherever they could, and Dar stopped often to offer encouragement and repeat his promises.
As she wandered through the town, Dallandra was impressed by how willing the citizens were to help each other. No one would be left behind, not an elderly woman, not a man with a twisted leg or a sickly orphan child. When she returned to Citadel, she saw the council members dividing the stored food in the town granary and distributing it evenly among the citizens. Up at Jahdo’s house, the servants were bustling around, putting food and movable goods into mule packs.
“There be room for other goods as well,” Niffa told her. “The eldest townsfolk may put in them what they cannot carry themselves.”
By sunset, the citizens had finished their preparations. The town militia stood guard over the loaded wagons and handcarts lined up at the southern gates. The Council of Five met for one last evening meal in Jahdo’s house, where the heavy wood furniture, stripped of its cushions, stood randomly around echoing rooms without drapes and tapestries. The house felt cold, as if it knew that it was about to be abandoned. To feed everyone, the servants had set out a long trestle table in the great room. Although Prince Dar ate with the council at the head table, he insisted on taking a seat at the side, leaving the position at the head for Jahdo himself.
Dallandra ate little and left