The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [112]
Scrying out Zakh Gral made him think of Rocca. Instantly his vision jumped to daylight and the Outer Shrine. Rocca was leaning over the rough stone outer altar, scrubbing it with a handful of rags. On the ground beside her sat a bucket of water. The job would make every muscle in her torso ache. She’d be glad of the pain, he supposed, because she’d see it as yet another sacrifice to her goddess. Nearby stood one of the Gel da’ Thae priestesses, waving her hands while she spoke. Rocca paused in her cleaning to listen, her face grave, almost troubled. Salamander wished for the thousandth time that he could hear while scrying, but only the greatest masters of the dweomer could manage that.
Rocca began talking. The Gel da’ Thae woman listened intently, then suddenly smiled, showing her teeth, filed to sharp points in the Horsekin manner. She seemed deeply relieved about whatever problem had brought her to her fellow priestess. Rocca patted her on the shoulder, as if to comfort her. The other woman nodded, then walked away. Rocca returned to her work.
And Sidro—where was she? The Sight took him flying upriver to the forest edge. Rocca had led him out of the forest at just that point, or so he remembered, following the same road that Sidro now walked in the opposite direction. She was trudging along in her painted leather dress with a blanket tied around her waist for a skirt and a bulging sack of supplies over one shoulder. She walked with her head down as if she were already profoundly weary with the journey just begun.
In the sunlight her cropped hair shone like a raven’s wing. He noticed for the first time that the back of her neck bore a string of green tattoos. Those and the width of her shoulders, her oddly round eyes, the strong modelling of her features – ye gods! he thought. I’ll wager there’s Horsekin blood in her veins! He focused in closer and saw that she was weeping. She raised her head and looked up at the sky while tears ran down her cheeks, a gesture that cost her when she stumbled over a rock in the path. She stopped, dropped her sack, and covered her face with her hands while she sobbed, her shoulders shaking from the pain of bare flesh meeting stone.
He pitied her. His involuntary stab of compassion surprised him so badly that he nearly lost the vision then and there, but he managed to stay focused for a few moments more, until she suddenly lowered her hands and twisted around to look behind her. Her tear-streaked face showed panic as she looked this way and that, just as if she knew someone watched her.
Salamander broke the vision fast. He sat still for a few moments, staring out at nothing, then tried to stand. The chamber swelled and swirled around him so violently that he nearly lost consciousness. Eventually his physical sight steadied down, but the stones of the chamber seemed to be breathing, a hundred swellings and flattenings of little lungs.
‘Star goddesses help me!’ he whispered aloud. He wanted to contact Dallandra, but he was suddenly afraid of using any dweomer at all.
A sound struck the chamber door from outside. He cocked his head to one side, puzzled, but when it sounded again he realized that someone was knocking.
‘Who is it?’ Salamander called out.
‘Neb. Are you ill or suchlike?’
‘I’m not. The door isn’t barred. Come in.’
Neb pushed open the door and walked in, stood looking down at him with his hands on his hips. ‘You look ill,’ he said.
‘Do I? Well, most likely it’s just the heat of the summer’s day. I didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘Then you’d best get out of this chamber, hadn’t you? It’s sweltering in here.’
‘Splendid idea! Have I missed breakfast?’
‘You’ve not. The lasses are just setting it out.’
After a bowl of porridge and a chunk of fresh bread and butter, Salamander felt his normal self. Still, he reminded himself that Dallandra had been right as usual. He needed to limit his scrying and to refrain