Free Penric and the Shaman (Penric & Desdemona Book 2) by Lois McMaster Bujold Page B

died uncleansed of the Great Beast that must have given him his powers. And now his soul is lost between the worlds, a sundering unwilled by either the gods or the man.”
    “You know so much of such things, young fellow?” said Gallin, startled.
    “I’m, ah… something of a Temple sensitive myself, as it happens.” His smile had gone a little stiff. “I knew the moment I saw the red dog that there had to be a shaman in this tale somewhere. It is partway to being made a Great Beast, did you know?”
    Gallin cleared his throat. “Blood’s a very intelligent dog. Well-mannered. Good with all the village children. Took to being a holy animal with no trouble at all.”
    “I daresay.”
    “So… you didn’t come here in answer to my letters…?” The acolyte seemed reluctant to give up this hope.
    “Not to your letters, no.” Penric bared his teeth in a brief, ironic grimace, an edged look Oswyl had not seen in his face before.
    Gallin confessed, “I’d thought to find another hedge shaman for Scuolla, somewhere up or down the mountains, to perform their last secret rites for him. Him seeming out of reach of my prayers. Scuolla had his Great Beast from the shaman here before him, long ago when he was a young man, and performed the cleansing for his mentor in turn when he died. He was bringing along his own apprentice, but he’d not invested the man with his powers yet as far as I know. Well, I do know, for Wen’s soul was signed taken up by the Son at his funeral the day after the tragedy.”
    Gossa nodded. “Plain as plain, that one was. Greatly to his family’s relief amidst their grief.”
    Oswyl began, “I should explain something more about the fugitive we hunt—” but Penric flung up his hand, interrupting him.
    “Wait just a little on that, Locator, if you please.”
    It didn’t please Oswyl much, but Penric was turning to Gallin. “How far is it to this maybe-haunted rockslide of yours?”
    “About five miles up the East Branch road, or thereabouts. An hour’s brisk ride.” Gallin squinted intently at Penric. “You say you are a Temple sensitive. Can you sense ghosts?”
    “Ah… with a bit of special help, yes.”
    “Can you get that help?”
    “I carry it with me.”
    Gallin grew eager. “Could you—would you—would you be willing to ride out to the fall with me, and sense what you can? It would put my mind to rest.” He reflected. “Or not, but at least I’d know .”
    Such an expedition couldn’t be back till nightfall, Oswyl calculated. They would be stuck in this village till tomorrow . “ Time ,” he gritted under his breath.
    Penric’s glance flicked up. He murmured back, “You could go on without me.”
    “No. I can’t.”
    “Well, then.” He turned to the acolyte. “I’m willing to take a look, yes. I can’t make any promises.”
    Gallin actually clapped his hands in relief. “We can be off as soon as the horses are saddled.”
    “We should take the red dog,” added Penric.
    Gallin stilled. “Ah. Aye.” He rose to lead the way, pausing only to grasp his wife’s hands in a farewell. At least the goodwife eyed them all more approvingly, as they clumped out after him.

VIII

    Penric studied the dog, Blood, as it cantered along behind the acolyte’s horse. It wasn’t undog, or not-dog, or even, really, terribly uncanny. It was just… more-dog, a peculiar density of itself.
    Can you show me more? he asked Desdemona.
    You are seeing what I am seeing, more or less , she replied. Turnabout being fair play.
    Hm .
    Oswyl nudged his horse up beside Pen’s on the rutted wagon trail—it was unduly flattering to dub it a road. After a moment he murmured, “You really can sense ghosts?”
    “Desdemona can. I don’t have her share the sight with me unless I ask. It’s distracting, especially in old places where many people have died over the years.” When first this skill had come to him, a few months after Des had moved in, he’d tripped himself up dodging