The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [188]
Laz stood watching her with his hands clasped behind him, elbows cocked like wings, head tilted a little to one side. Sidro suddenly wondered if his sorcery would someday transmute him into a real raven. She could remember some odd warnings in the scrolls Hazdrubal had brought with him from the Black Isles, but the idea struck her as too grotesque to take seriously.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘Oh, nothing, really. It’s just the thought of all the bloodshed.’
‘Ah. Well, I’ll hold my tongue about it and other morbidities, then. Here, I need to go talk with Pir. I’ll be back shortly.’
As soon as he left, Sidro sat down at the table and scried for Lakanza. This time Laz had been telling the truth. She saw Lakanza sitting inside a tent, with a man kneeling in front of her—Evan! That little viper, Sidro thought. How dare he speak to her! She saw that indeed, the other priestesses sat near her as well, except for Rocca. When Sidro thought of her former rival, the image built up quickly: Rocca alone in the shrine, prostrate on the floor before Alshandra’s altar as she prayed, her hands tight-clasped.
Get out of there, you fool! was Sidro’s instant thought. Rocca apparently heard nothing. The black pyramid sat on the altar, high above her head. Although Sidro stared into its twin for a long while, Rocca never approached the gem. Without it, Sidro couldn’t reach her mind. When she felt utterly unexpected tears in her eyes, she gave up trying.
‘I don’t hate her any more,’ Sidro said aloud. ‘I wonder why?’
Salamander slept little that night and woke well before dawn. He got up, grabbed his clothes, and left the tent to dress outside to avoid waking Clae. Although he knew that he could stay in the relative safety of the camp without anyone questioning his honour, he went out to the horse herd just as the eastern sky was turning an opalescent grey. He saddled and bridled his roan gelding, then led him back to the road. ‘Sorry, old lad,’ Salamander said to the horse. ‘I can’t sit here and wonder what might be happening to Rocca. Let’s hope our friends win the battle, or we might both end up as Horsekin slaves.’
Salamander mounted up and headed back towards Zakh Gral. High overhead, the dragons circled, black and silver in the rising sunlight, like omens from a nightmare.
Just at dawn the army of the two princes woke, gobbled whatever food they could find fast, then armed. Since he’d been chosen to ride in the second wave, Gerran saddled up his horse. The commanders had laid out a simple enough battle plan. Let the Horsekin sally as promised, then let the dragons and the archers disrupt their cavalry while the Mountain Folk set fire to the fortress. After that—Gerran smiled at the thought. No one could predict what would happen after that, no matter how many commanders discussed the matter.
The archers set up a secure position behind their waist-high stakes off to the army’s right flank. The Mountain axemen and the swordsmen, Deverry and Westfolk both, who would fight on foot ranged themselves in the front lines, facing Zakh Gral, while the men who’d fight on horseback took up a position well back from the field. Off to the left the dwarven engineers fussed over Big Girl and her little sisters, four more bellybows mounted on wooden stands, though these would shoot only ordinary bolts to defend their position from a Horsekin charge.
Inside the fortress horns sounded. From his distance Gerran heard them as thin cries, like puppies whining. He rose in the saddle and watched the huge doors of the fortress inch open. Between them he could see horses—riderless horses. He swore under