The Gold Falcon

by Katharine Kerr

  “You did?” Adranna leaned forward. “Could you tell me about it? I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “Not rude at all,” Salamander said hastily. “I should be honored.”

  Fortunately, he remembered a good many secondhand details, and this time through, he elaborated the story. Adranna listened, wide-eyed, her mouth slack, while Honelg nodded to himself at intervals, as if savoring the tale. Salamander began to feel more guilty than fearful, deceiving people who had entrusted their souls to a spirit he knew to be naught but an imposter.

  Alshandra had possessed dweomer beyond the power of any human master of that craft. Although she’d used those powers coldly and deliberately to get herself worshiped, a goddess she wasn’t, merely a strange spirit of the race known to the elves as Guardians. In the end she’d proved just as mortal as any elf or human, too, but her worshipers had refused to believe the truth, that she’d been defeated and slain. Salamander had never understood why, or why her legend continued to spread after her death. There was no doubting that it had grown in strength here in the Northlands. The lord and lady both sat as still as if they’d been ensorcelled by his story, until he finished with a small sob and a broken sigh.

  “I heard that Zaklof’s body smelled of roses,” Adranna said, “not of rotting flesh at all.”

  “I wouldn’t know, my lady,” Salamander said, quite truthfully for a change. “After he died, they carried him away, and I wasn’t close enough to tell.”

  Adranna plucked a handkerchief from her kirtle and wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s so sad,” she murmured, “dying a captive.”

  “Ah, but we’re all captives, prisoners in our flesh.” Honelg turned to Salamander. “Zaklof visited us several times, you see. I remember him as a strong man, and so full of life, but we know he’s now where we all want to be, free of this cursed rotten world at last, with her in our true home.”

  “Truly,” Salamander said. “He crossed over into her kingdom on a bridge of prayers.”

  “It’s a good thing you tell tales for your living,” Honelg went on. “Can you stand to tell it again? Tonight we’re having a very special guest.” He shot a meaningful glance at his wife. “I think me she’ll want to hear it. Zaklof died a true witness to our faith.”

  “I’m sure she will. And, Evan, you speak so beautifully.”

  “My thanks, my lady. You’re very kind to say so.”

  At dinner that night, Salamander met the rest of the lord’s family, his daughter Treniffa and his elderly mother, Lady Varigga. His son Matyc served everyone like a page, then sat down and joined in the meal. From their talk Salamander realized that even the lowliest servant in the dun believed in Alshandra and her false promises. Everlasting life in a glorious version of the Otherlands had its appeal, Salamander realized, but still he wondered why they would believe so fervently in things they’d never seen. The twenty men of Honelg’s warband, eating on the other side of the hall, drank a toast to the goddess’ name, marking themselves as believers as well.

  So, apparently, were all the farmers and their families who sharecropped land in Honelg’s demesne. Just as the meal was being cleared away, the farm folk began arriving, walking into the great hall in threes and fours, sitting down on the floor and chatting with each other so casually that Salamander realized they came here often. Among them he recognized Marth and a few other villagers.

  “It’s for the services.” Apparently the aged Lady Varigga had noticed him studying the farmers. “You’ll see. There’s a great treat in store for you.”

  “Splendid, my lady. It’s very kind of you to take me along.”

  “It’s in her name. There’s a place for every sort of person in her world.” She paused to consider his dirty traveling shirt with no trace of a smile. “Even for the lowest.”

  Apparently those persons would be expected to stay in their places, too, but then, Varigga was noble-born, even if she and her equally noble son did live like foxes in a den, praying that the hounds would never run their way.

  “It’s time,” Lord Honelg said. “Nearly dark out.”

  The lord stood up, and at his signal everyone in the great hall did the same. In a mannerly throng they strolled out of the dun and followed their lord across the twilit ward.

  When he’d first arrived, Salamander had wondered why the lord’s warband lived in a freestanding building instead of the usual barracks. Now he saw that a very different sort of structure took up that particular space. A shabby wooden door looked as if it would lead into a root cellar or suchlike, but in truth it led into a long, narrow chamber. The only fresh air came from chinks in the stonework, but fortunately, the masons had left plenty of those in their deceptively shoddy work.

  Once inside, the only light came from a single candle, carried by Lady Adranna down to the opposite end of the room from the door. The lady, her mother-in-law, and the son and daughter sat down on a bench just at the foot of a wooden platform. Behind them sat the chamberlain and the equerry right next to the common-born cook and stablemen, and, on the next set of benches, the warband. The dun’s servants and the farm people crowded together on the floor at the rear. Honelg closed the door, then stood in front of it and beckoned Salamander to do the same.

  “We all have our places in the ritual.” Honelg patted the hilt of his sword. “You and I will be the sentinels tonight.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Salamander said. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

  “Not at the moment, but one day those cursed priests of Bel might find us, and so we need to stay ready for them.”

  As Salamander’s eyes grew used to the dim light, he noticed a little door at the farther end of the long room. In a moment it opened, and a woman stepped onto the platform. She threw both arms into the air, tipped her head back, and called out a single word in a language he didn’t recognize. Silver light bloomed between and around her hands like a skein of yarn. Salamander gasped aloud, which drew a smile from the lord. When Lady Adranna blew out the candle, the priestess tossed the bundle of light toward the ceiling, where it stuck, sending its silver glow over the crowd. By its light Salamander could see a wood altar, topped with a long slab of stone that was, oddly enough, cracked in half.

  “There’s our Holy One,” Honelg whispered. “The priestess Rocca.”

  Despite the silvery glow, she stood far enough away that Salamander got only the most general impression of her—a slender woman, dark-haired and perhaps pretty, perhaps young, certainly vigorous.

  “Did she ride in today?” Salamander whispered.

  “She didn’t,” Honelg whispered in return. “She walks everywhere, all the way here from the Horsekin lands. She’s got a regular circuit, like, of believers.”

  Salamander would have asked more, but Rocca was speaking. Her voice, low and pleasant, carried easily through the stuffy chamber, although she did speak with something of a rough accent. Her words sounded as if she were pronouncing them farther back in her mouth than most Deverry folk would, and her R’s and Rh’s were flat, not rolled. As he listened, Salamander realized from the way she used certain idioms that she hailed from the northwest, beyond Deverry and the Westfolk lands both.

  “We be gathered here tonight in the shelter of our lord’s dun,” the priestess began, “to learn the truth. What be the questions we were about asking for our lives long?” She pointed at Honelg’s mother.

  Lady Varigga stood up. Considering her age, her voice was remarkably strong. “We wish to know what we were, where we came from, where we now are, who we are now, and where we are going.”

  “True-spoken. And the answers?”

  “We are eternal spirits, we came from between the stars, we live in a prison, we are children of light still, and we are going to Alshandra’s country.”

  “Also true-spoken.”

  Varigga sat back down.

  “At the beginning of the world,” Rocca continued, “Alshandra did make a green and lovely land, where pure water runs in crys
tal streams. Ripe fruit hangs heavy on every kind of tree, and when a fruit, it be plucked, a new one grows in its place. In her beautiful orchards the smell of ripening fruit wafts like perfume. And the flowers! I have seen in vision the banks of flowers, purple and pink and rose red, blossoming along the crystal streams. I do swear to you, my friends, that in her world all be color, and fragrance, and light.” Rocca paused for effect. “But why, then, does this world lie shut away from us? Why lack we the power to travel there? Why did she, the goddess of all things good, hide it from us?”

  Lady Adranna stood up and laid her right hand over her heart in an obviously rehearsed gesture. “She hid it not from us, but from the Dark Lord Vandar.”

  “True-spoken,” Rocca said. “And what did the evil Vandar steal from her?”

  “Her daughter, her only precious child.”

  “True-spoken. And why does Alshandra not appear to us? Once she walked among us, but she walks here no more.”

  “Because she searches for her lost daughter over all the world, wailing as she goes.” Adranna paused briefly. “Why can she not find her daughter?”

  This time the priestess gave the answer. “Because the Dark Lord has set evil guardians over the child and over the world.”

  Adranna sat down, and Varigga stood again.

  “What minions did Vandar send?” Rocca asked her.

  “His dragons of evil, spewing poison,” Varigga said. “Huge they were, bent on destroying our goddess’s creation.”

  “And did she slay them?”

  “She did slay the mother and father of all dragons, but unknown to her their evil spawn still lived.”

  “True-spoken.”

  Varigga sat back down. Rocca leaned forward, staring into the crowd as if she wished to look each person there in the eye. “To this very day,” she said at last, “the silver wyrm and the black dragon do roam and ravage. They do slay by night, they do poison by day, rabid, evil in the foulness of their hearts.”

  Ye gods! Salamander thought. She means Rori and Arzosah.

  “The Dark Lord Vandar did set them at their post,” Rocca went on. “By his orders they fall upon her people and destroy them. Until Vandar at last does die, they will have strength, but once the Dark Lord be slain, all his minions will sicken, fail, and pass utterly away.”

  Salamander was seized by the mad impulse to step forward and shout, “but Evandar’s already dead” simply because doing so would have had such a splendid effect on the crowd. He managed to keep his urge toward drama under control, even when the assembled worshipers cheered in anticipated triumph.

  “Soon, my well-loved friends,” Rocca said, “soon that day will come on a wave like silver moonlight. But until that day does come, we have a task, a holy burden. What be that task?” She paused only briefly. “To witness unto her power over death. Indeed, it be upon us to witness even with our deaths, for what holier deed could we be about doing but to die with her name upon our lips?”

  In unison the assembly shouted, “There be none!”

  “True-spoken!” Rocca shouted as well. “Let us give thanks, let us pray.”

  Those sitting on benches fell to their knees, even the aged Lady Varigga; those sitting on the floor rose to theirs. Salamander followed Honelg’s example and knelt as well. Apparently her followers believed that Alshandra took great delight in prayers. Rocca droned on and on, the crowd murmured responses, the room grew warmer and stuffier, until Salamander had to fight to stay awake. Since the prayerful kept their gaze on the floor, he could take comfort in knowing that no one would notice him yawning. In fact, he heard once or twice the distinct sound of a snore, hastily cut off, and knew that he was not alone.

  At last the prayers, and the service, were over. Everyone left the hidden room and in silence trooped across the ward to gather in the great hall. Honelg’s servants passed out chunks of bread, dipped in honey—whether as refreshment or as part of the ritual, Salamander didn’t know. Everyone chatted pleasantly, until, a few at a time, the farm folk left the broch, slinking through the dark like cats. As they left, Rocca stood at the door and blessed each of them.

  In the torchlight of the great hall Salamander finally got a clear look at her. Her long dark hair she wore in a sloppy twist at the nape of her neck, held there by two-pronged bone pins, but a good many short wisps had escaped, framing her face. Her eyes, too, were dark, and her features so delicate that she might have been lovely had she been reasonably clean.

  As it was, dirt smeared along her cheekbones and matted her hair; dirt ringed her neck and clotted under her torn fingernails. The tunic she wore over baggy brigga had once been linen-colored, but now appeared dark brown; it hung in stiff crusted folds. Her only adornment, if one could call it that, was a flat band of hammered steel curved around her right wrist. Her feet revealed how much she walked; they were huge, flat, and clublike from calluses and old scars. Salamander thought of Tieryn Cadryc, saying that Zaklof had never worn shoes in his life. Walking such long distances without them must have caused her constant pain, at least until the calluses had formed.

  Rocca also reeked of sour sweat and general secretions. Salamander feigned a cough and raised his arm to shelter his nose with his sleeve, a gesture that Honelg caught. The lord elbowed him in the ribs and whispered. “They don’t wash, the Holy Ones. It shows their contempt for the things of this world.”

  “I see,” Salamander whispered as well. “But don’t they get sores on their skin?”

  “Horrible ones, truly. They call them Alshandra’s jewels.”

  Once the last worshiper was out of the door, the priestess accepted a seat at the honor table. Lady Adranna moved down on the bench to allow Rocca to sit at the lord’s right hand, across from Salamander, who was sitting at his left. Young Matto brought her a plate of dry bread and a goblet of plain water, bowed to her, then hurried away again. Rocca said a brief prayer over the food, then picked up a chunk of bread and gestured at Salamander.

  “Now who be this?” Rocca said “A stranger, but he does wear the symbol of one who does follow our goddess.”

  “He does, Your Holiness,” Honelg said. “His name is Evan, though he goes by Salamander, because he’s a gerthddyn by trade.”

  “And he saw Zaklof die.” Adranna leaned forward. “Do tell her, Evan.”

  For the third time that day Salamander told his borrowed tale. With such an attentive audience he could no longer resist embroidering every detail. He invented speeches for the guards and sermons for Zaklof. He worked himself up to scattered tears at the appropriate places and let his voice catch with awe at others. Even the warband turned on their benches and listened in dead silence, their mugs of ale forgotten, as Salamander described Zaklof’s last hours in this world.

  Salamander then turned to his own imaginary troubles, a tale of suspicious neighbors, of priests threatening to burn him alive, of a wife who reacted only with fury to his talk of Alshandra. This material held the great hall’s attention equally well, until he at last truly understood that old turn of phrase about storytellers entrancing their audience. He might as well have turned them to stone for all the restlessness or skepticism they showed.

  When at last he finished, he wiped tears from his face on one sleeve with a suitably rough and masculine gesture, then allowed his hand to drop into his lap as if he were exhausted. The women at the table, including the priestess, were staring at him moist-eyed.

  “How much you did suffer,” Rocca said softly, “so much will our goddess reward you.”

  “Never would I claim any reward, Your Holiness,” Salamander said. “The only thing I long for is more knowledge of her and her ways.”

  “Well, that mayhap I could be giving to you, but there be a need on all of us to learn it slowly. Journeys, there be a need on them to proceed by single steps.”

  “Of course,” Salamander said. “Is there novice lore, then?”

  “There be such.” Rocca paused for a sip of water. “The council of high priests mapp
ed out our journey to her in safe steps.”

  “My heart burns to hear everything you deem me worthy of,” Salamander said, “and naught more.”

  Rocca smiled and raised her goblet of water as if in salute.

  “Unfortunately,” Honelg broke in, “our Holy One can’t stay here more than a single night. It’s too dangerous. Besides, she has other souls in her care.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, like, at my leaving here, I’ll be traveling straight back to our new dun, Zakh Gral. That be its name.” Rocca turned in Honelg’s direction. “We do build a shrine there, of course, and there be a need on me to be there for the consecration.”

  Salamander had to draw upon every bit of will that he possessed to keep his voice steady. “That’s a pity,” he said. “But perhaps, next time you come this way, would you tell me the lore then?”

  “A better idea, and methinks our goddess did send it to me.” Her eyes bright, she leaned forward. “Evan, truly, there be a need on you to come with me. You talk so well, you’d be a boon to the faith and the faithful. If the—well, the higher order of priests—if they do agree, it might even be allowed that you travel to the holiest of temples in our city off in the far west.”

  “Oh, I’d never be worthy of that.” Salamander looked down at the floor and softened his voice to modesty. “My gifts are far too poor. But I’d love to see the shrine, a holy place dedicated to her.”

  “Then you shall!” Rocca smiled, suddenly merry. “It be a long way off, but while we go a-traveling, I may teach you the novice’s lore, and you may teach me how to speak like you do.”

  “Your Holiness, you speak from the heart, and that makes your words far more moving than any a gerthddyn could say.”

  “How kind you be! But still, there be other wandering priests and priestesses, and as much as they do love our goddess, they do lack the words to make others see the truth and come to her. There be a need for such as you to help to us. Please—do come with me?”

  “Do you truly think I’m worthy?”

  “If I had not so thought, would I be inviting you?” She sounded on the edge of laughing. “Now, whether it be possible for you to someday see the temple in Taenalapan, I mayn’t say. The deciding of that be for the holy council. But the shrine—certainly it does lie within my rights to take you there.”