travelling with a large armed escort. They were looking for something, she said, a good place to build something. She didn’t know what. They wouldn’t have told the likes of her any details.’
‘My worst fear begins to materialize before me, but you have my thanks.’
‘Your worst fear? It ranks high among mine, and Cal’s, too.’
‘No doubt.’ His image turned thoughtful. ‘Have you seen Zandro yet?’
‘Yes, indeed I have, and here’s some good news. He can call some people by name now. He knows his own, and mine, and of course your father’s and a few of your father’s friends.’
‘Splendid!’
‘And he’s become quite protective of the younger changelings. He and Elessi lead the little ones like a pack of wolves. They run through the camp together and laugh at everything. Zan’s not hit anyone or pulled hair or any such nasty trick, not since we’ve been here.’
‘Wonderful! That gives me some hope he’ll find happiness of a sort.’
‘Me too.’ Dalla felt suddenly weary. ‘When I worked so hard at getting those souls born, I didn’t stop to think of what they’d be like in their very first incarnation. Poor little spirits! They should have taken flesh when the world was new.’
‘Indeed. In time they’ll grow full minds.’
‘So we can hope. I honestly don’t know how many lives it will take them. But Zan at least has become very nicely behaved. Dev has the most amazing patience.’
‘Now. He certainly never showed any with me.’
‘Well, he was much younger then. He didn’t know how to treat a small child.’
‘I suppose he did the best he could, given that my mother didn’t want me.’
Dalla could feel the bitterness in his thoughts – still, after nearly two hundred years. ‘She didn’t have much choice,’ she said. ‘The fault lies in the way Deverry men treat their women, or so your father told me.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t truly remember her, anyway, except that she was pink and soft and warm, and her name was Morri.’
‘That wasn’t your mother. That was your nursemaid. Dev did tell me that much, but you know, it’s odd. He truly didn’t want to tell me more.’
In the image of his face she could see confusion, and his thoughts swirled round like autumn leaves, picked up and blown in circles by the wind, until, like leaves the wind has dropped, his mind steadied again. ‘Well, it hardly matters now,’ Salamander thought to her. ‘But sometime when we have a moment to spare for talking about things long past, I’d like to hear the story.’
‘Your father would most likely tell you more than he’d tell me.’
Salamander’s image looked profoundly sad.
‘But we could always ask him for the tale together,’ Dallandra said hurriedly. ‘I’m surprised you’ve not heard it already.’
‘So am I. Continually, perennially and eternally surprised, every time the subject comes up between me and the esteemed progenitor.’ His face-image displayed a forced smile. ‘You would doubtless be even more surprised at the speed with which he can leap away from the subject, like a cat when someone empties a bucket of water nearby.’ His image smiled in unconvincing dismissal. ‘But it matters naught. Tomorrow we leave for Cengarn. I’ll keep you informed of what happens there.’
Abruptly Salamander broke the link. She’d touched on an old, deep wound, Dallandra realized, and one that, in time, she would have to help him heal.
I’m surprised you’ve not heard it already. After he broke the scrying-link, Salamander realized that his right hand had clenched into a fist and that he was tempted to throw a hard punch into the stones of the tieryn’s wall. A gaggle of gnomes materialized at his feet and raised little paws, as if signalling caution.
‘Yes, smashing flesh into stone means one thing only,’ Salamander said in Elvish. ‘The stone wins.’
With the Wildfolk trailing after, he climbed down from the wall and headed for the broch. Thinking about his childhood always filled him with melancholy, and he was considering drowning the feeling with some good dark ale. He reached the door of the great hall just as Branna was coming out of it, a candle lantern in her hand. The light coming through the pierced tin dappled her face in a pattern like stars.
‘Good evening to you, my lady,’ Salamander said. ‘Have you come out to enjoy the night air?’
‘I have, truly,’ Branna said. ‘It gets stuffy up in my chamber.’
‘Hum, I find myself wondering if perhaps Neb’s chamber grows just as stuffy. Could it be that he’s out here as well, just by coincidence of course, out in the herb garden, say?’
‘And would it be any of your affair if he was?’
‘None, of course. But if I were you, I’d make sure Gerran didn’t know what you were up to.’
‘Gerran is drinking with his men. They won’t stop till they’re all staggering.’
‘Love can make a man as drunk as ale does.’
‘True spoken, but when he’s drunk on ale he can’t lift his sword.’
‘Nor can he lift much else. I trust Neb is the sober sort?’
‘Oh!’ Branna caught her breath and blushed. ‘Do hold your tongue, you chattering elf!’
‘Now I wonder,’ Salamander said, grinning, ‘where you got that turn of phrase. That I chatter is a point beyond disputing, but someone else used to call me that, and I think me we both knew her well.’
Branna stared at him for a long moment, then turned in a swirl of dresses and rushed across the ward, heading for the herb garden. Salamander stepped inside the hall and saw Gerran and his men clustered around a table, wagering furiously on some game or other. Salamander considered joining them, then climbed the staircase instead. Behind him more Wildfolk materialized to follow in a silvery, translucent parade.
In his little chamber Salamander sat on the wide windowsill and looked out over the night-time dun. Here and there points of light gleamed in a window or bobbed along, a lantern held in someone’s hand. He could distantly hear, like the murmur of a river, the sounds from the great hall. A dog barked out by the stables, then fell silent.
‘This could turn nasty,’ he remarked to the Wildfolk. ‘Neb, Branna, and Gerran, I mean.’
The Wildfolk all nodded their agreement.
‘But yet I have hope. From everything Dalla’s told me, Cullyn well and truly broke that particular chain of wyrd in the last life he shared with Branna. If Gerran remembers – not that he’ll know he’s remembering of course – but if he does remember, deep in his mind somewhere, then mayhap the outcome will be a fair one. And if the outcome is foul, then we’ll know that he doesn’t remember Cullyn of Cerrmor’s wisdom.’
The
