The Gold Falcon

by Katharine Kerr

  “Just so.” Salamander started to get up, then sat back down abruptly. The world was shimmering around him. “I think I’m more tired than I realized.”

  “Here, I’ll help you up. You need to sleep. First thing in the morning, I want you to have a look at Honelg’s dun, provided you’re not still exhausted.”

  “I shouldn’t have any trouble with the scrying. It’s the first thing in the morning part that troubles me.”

  “Well, we’ll see how the muster goes, then. I’ll wake you as late as I can.”

  Dallandra made sure that Salamander went straight to his blankets in the tent he shared with the archers of Dar’s escort, then returned to her little fire to wait for Calonderiel. She’d been assuming, she realized, both that the mazrak she’d spotted earlier was Sidro, and that Sidro was indeed Raena reborn. That she might be the same soul as Raena was still possible, of course, but not even a dweomer raven could have flown all the way back to Zakh Gral in a single evening on the physical plane. In her day Raena had been able to travel the secret roads, but only because Alshandra had lent her the etheric and astral energies to do so. Without Alshandra, she would need long years of training to fly along those paths. Given her cult’s denial of the dweomer, it was highly unlikely that she’d gotten it.

  But if not Sidro, who was the mazrak? The thought of a Bardek lamp on a Horsekin altar and a Bardek-style painting behind it kept returning to Dallandra’s mind. The best case would be that priestesses of the Bardekian nameless goddess had somehow linked up with the Alshandra worshipers, but considering the vast distances between the Bardekian islands and the Horsekin lands, it seemed highly improbable.

  The other alternative disturbed her. Most Bardekians were highly civilized, cultured people, not the sort to become religious fanatics or to establish ties with the likes of the Horsekin, but as in all times and lands, some few became general riffraff, criminals, or worst of all, men who followed the corruptions and practiced the evils of the dark dweomer.

  But why would a dark dweomerman—the dark guilds only allowed men to join—be consorting with Horsekin? Had some of the dark dweomer practioners fled the legal authorities in their homeland and come north to take refuge among the Horsekin tribes? If so, it was possible that her mysterious mazrak was one of them. But how had he managed to survive, when the Alshandra cult demanded death for anyone working dweomer?

  “Too many questions,” she said aloud. “There may be answers in Zakh Gral—if we can take the fort and get at them. If? We have to now. We absolutely have to.”

  Soon after, Calonderiel returned with the news that the prince and Meranaldar were still trying to think of some polite reason to leave the gwerbret’s table.

  “You know, I even feel sorry for our milksop scribe,” Cal said, smiling. “He was nearly asleep and desperately trying to stay awake. It would be rude, after all, to start snoring at table, and the gods all know that being rude is his worst fear.”

  “You are mean sometimes!”

  “I suppose so.” He cocked his head to one side and studied her for a moment. “You look like you’ve got bad news to tell me.”

  “Mean you are, but also perceptive. I’m afraid I do. Branna and I spotted a mazrak this evening, circling above the camp. It can’t be any of the priestesses from Zakh Gral. That means there’s a rogue stallion hanging around this herd, and I don’t know who he is.”

  For a moment Cal blinked at her; then he swore with some of the foulest oaths she’d ever heard him use.

  “Well,” she said when he’d done, “I felt somewhat the same.”

  “Only somewhat, or so I should hope. You must be sure of this, or you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Oh, yes. This mazrak is the real reason I didn’t want Cadryc’s womenfolk out on the road. Tell me, will they be staying in Cengarn?”

  “Yes. The tieryn agreed with us instantly, and so did Lord Oth when we asked him.” Cal paused for a long sigh that shaded into a growl. “At least one thing’s gone our way. I suppose it was too much to hope that this campaign would be some nice clean military exercise and nothing more.”

  “Apparently it was. This whole situation positively reeks of dweomer, and I’m afraid that some of it might be the worst possible kind.”

  Much too early by Salamander’s reckoning, Dallandra woke him. Except for the two of them, the archers’ tent stood empty. Apparently he’d slept straight through all the noise of the other men rolling up their bedrolls and gathering their gear.

  “They’re waiting for you to get up,” Dalla told him, “so they can strike the tent.”

  “Ah, um, urk.” Salamander sat up. “I’ll hurry, then.”

  He’d slept mostly dressed; he pulled on his boots and staggered outside to find the first pale gray of dawn a stripe on the eastern horizon. Muttering and complaining, he followed Dallandra down to the riverbank, where the water flowed glimmering from the silver day brightening in a cloudy sky. With such a ready focus, Salamander found the image of Honelg’s dun easily. At first it seemed that he was watching it from a great height, as if he flew over it in bird-form. He could feel danger so urgently, however, that he found himself swooping down, focusing down, until he seemed to be standing inside the ward.

  Four men were loading sacks and bedrolls onto a pair of pack mules, while servants held the reins of four riding horses at the gates. Lord Honelg stood nearby, watching the men. He was holding a long stick in one hand, an object that Salamander found puzzling until Honelg called one of the men over. Honelg began using the stick to draw a rough map in the muddy ground at his feet. He was talking all the while, but Salamander couldn’t hear his words. He had no need, really, as the map made everything quite clear. Salamander broke the vision.

  “Dalla, he’s sending messengers to Zakh Gral.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Dallandra had gone white about the mouth. “You’re sure they’re going to Zakh Gral?”

  “And where else in the Westlands would they be going? Certainly not to consort with Vandar’s spawn out on the grass.”

  “Well, yes. I just had a desperate moment of hope.” She tried to smile and failed utterly. “Ebañy, if the Horsekin are warned—we may still be able to destroy their fortress, but how many of us are going to die doing it?”

  For a moment Salamander could find nothing to say, just from the shock of seeing Dallandra frightened. “Now here,” he said at last, “things aren’t hopeless yet. It’s a long ride to Zakh Gral from Honelg’s dun. They’ll have to cross the grasslands, and I’ll wager that they have to stick to open country. When Rocca took me there, we went through forest, all right, but the route was so complex that the messengers would be lost in half a day if they tried to follow it. They’ll have to head dead west through the grassland. And that gives us the time and chance to intercept them.”

  Some of the color returned to Dallandra’s face. “We need to contact Valandario and Carra.”

  “Just that.” Salamander paused for a yawn. “I wonder where the nearest alar is? Most alarli should still have their herds in the north grazing.”

  “Valandario will know. If you scry and tell her what you’re seeing, they’ll have some idea of where the messengers are.”

  “Better yet—if Val rides with them, I can guide them. I’ll scry, then contact her and tell her what I’ve seen, and with a bit of luck, she can lead our men straight to the messengers.”

  “That might work, yes.” Dallandra sounded doubtful. “But we daren’t depend on luck.”

  “It would be far better if I were there with them. If I fly, I can reach Val’s alar in a day.”

  “No! I absolutely forbid it. Ebañy, I do not want to spend another ten years putting the pieces of your mind back together.” All at once Dallandra smiled. “Besides, we’ve got stronger wings than yours at our disposal, assuming they get here soon, anyway.”

  “Of course! The residue of all that mead must have fuddled my mind. Arzosah.”

  “Exactly. Here, let’s walk
a ways from the camp. I want to summon her again, just to make sure she knows it’s urgent. And then we’d better tell Cal about this latest disaster.”

  “And the gwerbret, too, I suppose.”

  “No. Do you think a Deverry lord, particularly an arrogant child like Ridvar, would believe us?”

  “Oh. Alas. No, he wouldn’t.”

  “We’ll have to make this strike without any help from the Roundears, and that’s probably for the best. We can act more quickly on our own.”

  Branna sat sullenly on the edge of the rumpled bed. By candlelight she was watching Neb pack his scribe’s tools into a saddlebag. He’d already rolled his few extra pieces of clothing up in his old set of blankets, lying ready by the door.

  “I still wish I were going with you,” she said.

  “In a way, I wish you were, too.” Neb looked up from his task. “My heart’s going to ache every single moment we’re parted.”

  Something of her bad mood lifted at seeing he shared it. “While you’re gone, I’m going to finish your wedding shirt. Uncle Cadryc sent messengers back to the dun this morning, and I told them to get the pieces and bring them back. Some of the women servants know where they are.”

  “My thanks.” Neb turned and smiled at her, but his eyes filled with tears. With a laugh he wiped them away on his sleeve. “I don’t know why that moved me so, hearing you mention the shirt.”

  “I don’t either, but I’m glad it did.”

  He sat down next to her on the bed, drew her into his arms, and kissed her. For a moment she clung to him, but from the ward below men’s voices and the clop of hooves on cobbles drifted up to them.

  “Ah, curse it all!” Neb said. “I wish I weren’t leaving, but if I’m going to be the tieryn’s servitor, I’ve got to follow his orders.”

  “It won’t be for long, I’ll wager. I mean, you won’t be anyone’s servitor in a little while. We’ve got to go study with Dalla.”

  “True spoken. I feel that I’ve treated your uncle’s hospitality ill, though, taking you away and leaving him without a scribe.”

  “Solla can read and write. Why shouldn’t she be his scribe? It’s not like he sends lots of letters, anyway.”

  “Why not, indeed? That eases my heart a bit.” Neb raised her hand to his lips and kissed the palm. “And at least now I know you’ll be safe. I don’t know why, but thinking of you and Galla out on the roads frightened me badly.”

  “Me, too. Dalla says it was a dweomer warning. You see, we can’t get away from it.”

  “I don’t even want to.”

  The noise in the ward grew louder. They could hear Ridvar yelling orders and men answering him.

  “I’ll walk with you down to the muster, my love,” Branna said. “That way we won’t be parted quite as long.”

  “Good.” Neb grinned at her, then glanced out of the window. His grin abruptly disappeared. “Better take your cloak. On top of everything else, it looks like it’s going to rain.”

  The weather had held gloriously fair for the gwerbret’s wedding celebration, but that night clouds had ridden in on a north wind, and by dawn a dark mass of them covered the sky. On the eastern horizon the sun made a brave stand, turning the storm’s edge silver, but in the end, it fled in defeat.

  “Cursed nuisance,” Cadryc said. “We’ll be riding wet by noon, lad.”

  “Most likely,” Gerran said. “A bit of rotten luck, Your Grace.”

  In the meadow below Cengarn, the men of the Red Wolf and the Westfolk were waiting for the rest of the army to join them. The Red Wolf warband had already chosen up pairs and were organizing themselves and their horses into an untidy line of march. The Westfolk were still saddling up and sorting out weapons. Their longbows would travel on a pack animal, but each man carried a short hunting bow in a leather sling across his back. These they could shoot from horseback. Two of the archers stood off to one side, arguing with Calonderiel over some detail or other. Since they were speaking in Elvish, Gerran understood none of it.

  Servants from the dun were taking down the pavilion. As Gerran watched, they pulled the guy ropes free of their pegs, and the canvas structure collapsed inward. It fell in white billows, and as they settled to the ground, Gerran saw Neb and Branna, who’d apparently been standing on the far side of the pavilion. They were enjoying a long and passionate farewell in each other’s arms. Gerran felt a brief contempt—the scribe was obviously no honor-bound fighting man, if he’d make such a fuss about leaving his woman.

  “I wonder where the blasted gwerbret and the rest of them are,” Cadryc remarked. “I want to get everyone mounted up before the cursed rains come. Don’t want to be riding on wet saddles, do we?”

  “We don’t, Your Grace.”

  “His men should have gotten their gear together last night. Humph! The longer we sit here, the longer Honelg has to prepare for a siege.”

  “True spoken. But you know, Ridvar promised to have his dun and town searched for Alshandra’s people. We don’t need any more spies trotting off north with news. I’ll wager he’s setting the hunt in motion right now.”

  “I’d forgotten about that. And good thing it is, though a bit like setting dogs round the sheep fold after the wolves have been and gone. Which reminds me, I’ve got to thank Lady Dallandra.” Cadryc made a sour face. “I feel like a fool, I tell you, for not seeing the danger to our womenfolk. Ah, well, mayhap I’ll be in a position to do her a favor one day.”

  Gerran found Dallandra something of a puzzle, simply because the prince treated her with such deference. Some of the other Westfolk referred to her as “wise one,” as well. He wasn’t sure if the term were some kind of official title or merely a compliment. In her doeskin leggings and tunic, with her hair severely braided, she looked more like a lad to him than a lady, but as with all the Westfolk, with their smooth beauty he couldn’t tell if she were young or aging.

  Dallandra took the tieryn’s thanks graciously indeed.

  “It was truly Calonderiel who realized what might happen,” she said. “I only had the strangest feeling about trouble coming.”

  “Well, you women have a way about you, eh?” Cadryc said. “Intuition, I suppose you’d call it, seeing the things we men overlook. You have my thanks twice over.”

  Dallandra smiled in acknowledgment, then looked Gerran’s way. Her steel-gray glance seemed to cut into his mind and probe his very soul. He found himself remembering all the rumors of dweomer that he’d heard over the years. Meeting her level gaze made him wonder if maybe they were true, after all. Certainly if anyone he’d ever met had dweomer, it would be this woman. And Neb, he thought, the fight we had—if you could call it a fight. He and Dallandra spend a lot of time talking, don’t they?

  His earlier contempt for the scribe vanished as he was forced to draw the inevitable conclusion: this war involved sorceries and dark powers. For a moment he felt like a man who steps off a ladder into a hay loft only to feel the floor giving way beneath him as long-rotted boards break at last. With a small smile Dallandra looked away, and the world steadied again under him.

  Overhead, thunder rumbled. Gerran yelped like a kicked dog. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment. “My apologies,” he said. “That startled me, for some cursed reason!”

  “Me, too,” Cadryc glared in the direction of the citadel, looming above them as darkly as any storm cloud. “I wish the gwerbret would get himself down here.”

  Gwerbret Ridvar, with Prince Voran riding beside him, did lead his men down before the rain broke. The army, however, had made a scant three miles from Cengarn when a hard downpour began, soaking everyone before they could even curse the stuff properly. At first it showed every sign of lasting all day and perhaps into the night, but not long after noon a wind sprang up from the west. Like a sheepdog it harried the clouds and pushed them toward the east. The rain turned to a drizzle, then dwindled to nothing. In a clear sky the sun hung low over the western horizon.

  “Well, now, that’s a bit
of luck!” Cadryc said. “Storms usually last all day around here.”

  “So they do,” Gerran said, but he suddenly wondered if it was luck or Dallandra who’d driven the storm away.

  The message came back down the line of march that the gwerbret was going to call a halt as soon as he found a decent spot for their encampment. Cheers followed its progress from rider to rider.

  “Let’s hope it stays dry tomorrow,” Cadryc said.

  “True spoken, Your Grace,” Gerran said. “We can’t have gotten more than twelve miles from Cengarn. It’s the cursed muddy roads—” He broke off when he realized that Cadryc wasn’t listening.

  The tieryn was riding with his head tipped back, staring up at the sky. When Gerran followed his lead, he saw something that looked like a bird circling high above them, a black bird of some sort, perhaps, but it was far too big for a raven.

  “What in the name of every god is that?” Cadryc pointed. “Looks like the blasted thing is following us.”

  Up ahead the Westfolk archers had seen it, too. With a shout they began to free their bows from their leather slings. Calling out in Elvish, Dallandra turned her horse out of line and rode back level with the troop. Whatever she said made the men leave their bows on their backs. The bird dropped down closer in a lazy circle—no bird at all, not with those greenish-black scales glittering from the rain, not with those enormous but unfeathered wings.

  “It’s another blasted dragon!” Gerran said. “As if we didn’t have enough trouble on our hands already.”

  Cadryc most likely would have agreed, but at that moment the horses got a noseful of the dragon’s vine-garish scent. Even the best-trained warhorses began to buck and rear, neighing in terror, kicking out, until the entire army disintegrated into a mob. The dragon dipped one wing and turned, flapping fast away toward a stretch of open grass not far to the east. As it did so, Gerran could have sworn that it called out “My apologies!” in a deep rumble of a voice, but he had no time to consider the absurdity of such a thought until at last, with the dragon gone off, the horses began to calm themselves.