‘This dream won’t change, my friend. There’ll be no market for our mead come springtime. You know that; you’ve spoken to the Pallides man.’
‘What did you tell him?’ asked Tovi as the two men clambered to the driving seat of the wagon.
‘Nothing he didn’t already know,” answered Gwalch. ‘The Pallides Gifted Ones are quite correct.’
‘And that was all?’
Gwalch shook his head. ‘There is a leader coming. But I wouldn’t tell him who, or when. It is not the right time. He impressed me, though. Sharp as a stone of flint, and hard too. He could have been a force one day. But he won’t survive. You will, though, Tovi. You’re going to be a man again.’
‘I am already a man, Gwalchmai Hare-turd. And don’t you forget it.’
In the pale moonlight the friendly willow took on a new identity, its long, wispy branches trailing the steel-coloured water like skeletal fingers. Even the sound of the falls was muted and strange, like the whispers of angry demons. The undergrowth rustled as the creatures of the night moved abroad on furtive paws, and Sigarni sat motionless by the waterside, watching the fragmented moon ripple on the surface.
She felt both numb and angry by turn; numbed by the death of the simple herder, and angry at the way the dwarf had treated her. Sigarni had spent three days in the mountains trapping fox and beaver, and had returned tired, wet and hungry to find Ballistar sitting by- her door. Her spirits had lifted instantly; the little man was always good company, and his cooking was a treat to be enjoyed. Greeting him with a smile, Sigarni had dumped her furs on the wooden board and then returned Abby to her bow perch. Returning to the house, she saw that Ballistar had moved away from the door. He was standing stock-still, staring at her, his face set and serious, the expression in his eyes unfathomable. Sigarni saw that he was carrying a hawking glove of pale tan, beautifully decorated with white and blue beads.
‘A present for me?” she asked. He nodded and tossed her the glove. It was well made of turned hide brushed to a sheen, the stiches small and tight, the beads forming a series of blue swirls over a white letter §. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said gaily. ‘Why so glum? Did you think I wouldn’t like it?’ Slipping it on, she found it fitted perfectly.
‘I never saw a crow peck out a man’s eye before,’ he said. ‘It’s curious how easily the orb comes away. Still, Bernt didn’t mind. Even though he was in his best clothes. He didn’t mind at all. Scarce noticed it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nothing of importance, Sigarni. So, how was Bernt when you saw him?’
‘I didn’t see him,’ she snapped. ‘I had other things to do. Now what is wrong with you? Are you drunk?’
The dwarf shook his head. ‘No, I’m not drunk – but I will be in a while. I shall probably drink too much at the wake. I do that, you know. Funerals always upset me.’ He pointed at the glove she wore. ‘He made that for you. I suppose you could call it a love gift. He made it and he put on his best tunic. He wanted you to see him at his very
best. But you didn’t bother to go. So he waited until the dawn and then hanged himself from a tall tree in the oak grove. So, Sigarni, that’s one fool you won’t have to suffer again.’
She stood very still, then slowly peeled off the glove. ‘It was on the ground below him,’ said Ballistar, ‘so you’ll have to excuse the stains.’
Sigarni hurled the glove to the ground. ‘Are you blaming me for his suicide?’ she asked him.
‘You, princess? No, not at all,’ he told her, his voice rich with sarcasm. ‘He just wanted to see you one last time. He asked me to tell you how important it was to him. And I did. But nothing is important to him any more.’
‘Have you said all you want to say?’ she asked, her voice soft but her eyes angry.