The Gold Falcon

by Katharine Kerr

  “Splendid! Let’s go. Maybe I can just sit with them at dinner tonight and figure out what I’m supposed to do later.”

  Although Branna and Neb would have liked to have stayed alone in their chamber forever, sheer hunger drove them out and down to the great hall. If anyone had missed them during the afternoon, no one mentioned it, and they returned to their places at Cadryc’s table without so much as a smirk to greet them. Adranna had come down from the women’s hall, bringing Trenni with her, to join Solla and Galla. Both children sat as close to their mother as they could get on the narrow bench. The tieryn was telling his assembled womenfolk how the prince had maneuvered Ridvar into offering Gerran the demesne.

  “I’ve never seen our Falcon so surprised,” Cadryc was saying. All at once he seemed to realize that some at the table would find the story painful. “Addi, my dear, I think me I’ll finish the tale some other time.”

  “My thanks, Da.” Adranna gave him a weary smile. “I’m not yet ready to hear—” She paused for a long moment. “To hear all of it.”

  “I thought not.” Cadryc had a swallow of ale from his tankard and made a sour face. “Ye gods, this has been watered right down. I suppose the wedding drank the dun dry, eh? But as I was saying, those dragons were quite a marvel. Did I tell you yet about the priest of Bel’s cows?”

  Aunt Galla and Solla exchanged a glance, then murmured a cheerful, “You didn’t and please do.” Anything to keep him from talking about Honelg and the attainder! Branna thought, but once she heard the story, she did have to admit that it was a good one. She could imagine Arzosah’s smug satisfaction at getting a good meal out of a particularly stingy priest. She joined in the general laughter, but Neb leaned close to whisper to her.

  “There’s a bit more to this tale than his grace knows,” Neb said. “And it’s not funny in the least. I’ll tell you once we’re alone.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t tease like that.” Branna dropped her voice as well. “Especially not here.”

  Lady Galla cleared her throat. She was looking at Neb with one eyebrow raised.

  “My apologies,” Neb said. “I shouldn’t have been whispering. Just lover’s drivel.”

  Everyone laughed, even Adranna, and the moment passed.

  “I was just wondering about the other dragon,” Branna said brightly. “Did he get any of the cows?”

  “He might have,” Cadryc said, “but he didn’t stay around long enough for us to so much as thank him. They’re strange beasts, dragons, and I think me that the silver one’s the strangest of them all.”

  Branna could well believe it. Ever since she’d seen the silver wyrm fly over Cengarn, an odd feeling rose from deep in her mind every time she thought of the dragons, a nagging sort of irritation, such as a person feels when she forgets the name of someone she should know perfectly well. She’d been hoping that she’d have one of her memory-dreams to explain it, but so far at least, nothing had come to her. Now that Dallandra had returned, Branna was hoping that the dweomermaster would tell her more.

  After dinner, Branna found Dallandra standing near the dragon hearth and waiting for a chance to speak with Lord Oth. They sat down together on a bench in a reasonably quiet spot near the door. Branna tried to tell her how the sight of the silver dragon had affected her, but she found herself stumbling over her words. It seemed to her that she was trying to say two things at once, or that two selves were trying to speak at once—Jill, she thought with a cold shudder. That’s who the other voice belongs to.

  “Have you dreamed about this?” Dallandra asked at length.

  “I’ve not,” Branna said, “In fact, I’ve not had any of those memory-dreams for many a night now. I hadn’t realized just how much I’ve come to depend on them.”

  “The time’s come for you to begin to remember your past lives consciously. That’s why they’ve disappeared. Curse this wretched war! I shan’t be able to start your training until it’s over, one way or the other.”

  “You’re not going to go west with the army, are you?”

  “I am. The Westfolk need a healer along who understands them. We have our differences from Deverry men.”

  “I suppose you would, truly. But about the silver wyrm—”

  For the first time since she’d met Dallandra, Branna felt the dweomermaster’s mind shy away from a question. “Is somewhat wrong with my asking?” she said.

  “Not wrong at all, merely difficult.” But Dallandra hesitated for a long moment. “It’s a very complicated thing.”

  “Did Jill know this dragon or suchlike?”

  “She knew him before he was a dragon. Surely Salamander’s told you that Rori started life as his brother.”

  “He did, but I’m not sure I believed him.”

  “It’s quite true. Jill died before his transformation.”

  “Was he a mazrak, then? Did he get, well, stuck I suppose I mean?”

  Dallandra laughed, but it was a nervous little bark, not true mirth. “He wasn’t a mazrak. He was a silver dagger, just as Salamander told you. Well, I really don’t think I can explain it to you in a way that will make sense. You really need to know more about the dweomer before I can make it clear.”

  Branna had never felt more bewildered. So—she’d known the dragon in her last life, but not in dragon form, and apparently he was something very strange indeed, a man who had become another creature without working dweomer to do so. The image that presented itself to her mind was of a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, the end result of some natural process.

  “Very well,” Branna said. “You know best.”

  “I just wish we had more time. We’re leaving at dawn on the morrow.”

  “We’ll be leaving for home as soon as we can, too.”

  “I heard that they’ll be mustering the full army at your dun.”

  “Well, near it, I should say. We’d never fit everyone into our ward.” Branna felt suddenly uneasy. “If we get home safely, anyway. Should I stay on guard for mazrakir?”

  “Did you see that raven while we were gone?”

  “I didn’t, and I’m glad of it, too.”

  “No doubt.” Dallandra smiled at her. “Still, I’ll remind Salamander to keep a watch for the wretched thing. I’ve been meaning to tell you. He and Arzosah will be traveling with you.”

  “Now that’s a great relief. No one’s going to cause us trouble with a dragon on guard.”

  “Indeed, which is why I asked her to go with you. Don’t worry about having to feed her. She prefers to hunt fresh game for herself.”

  “That’s good! Does she know more about Rori?”

  “She does, but you’d best not ask her. Besides, she doubtless won’t tell you even if you do. It’s a very sore subject with her. I don’t mean to put you off either.” Dallandra looked away. “If it weren’t for this wretched war, I’d have time to explain things properly.”

  And yet her words left Branna with the feeling that putting her off was exactly what Dallandra had wanted to do.

  Dallandra finally got her audience with Lord Oth only to find that the princes Daralanteriel and Voran had done her work for her. Oth listened to her plea for mercy upon those accused of Alshandra worship, then interrupted with a smile.

  “Indeed,” Oth said, “I’ve had much time to think the matter over, and I’ve talked with the two princes as well. I agree with all of you, Lady Dallandra. I shall counsel his grace toward mercy, I assure you. He does understand the reasons why that course would be best.”

  “That gladdens my heart, Councillor,” Dallandra said. “But what exactly will he do to them?”

  “I can promise nothing. The decision will have to be his grace’s, but they owe a debt to the true gods that they cannot repay in coin, and so the laws do allow for them to be declared bondfolk and branded.”

  Dallandra winced.

  “It’s better than being drawn and hanged, I assure you,” Oth said hastily. “I once saw a murderer punished that way, and truly, it’s not a
sight I long to see again.”

  “Well, true-spoken, I’m sure.”

  “Besides, Lord Gerran will need men to tend his new lands.” Oth laid a finger alongside his nose and looked positively sly. “Most of the prisoners come from that village, not that I shall remind his grace of that. Debt-bound and branded they may be, but they’ll return to their families.”

  “My lord, I’m sure the true gods will shower favor and fortune upon you for this! Someone mentioned that there was a child taken prisoner here in Cengarn. Surely he won’t be subjected to a hot iron?”

  “A kitchen lad, and truly, he’s not very old. You know, some while ago Lady Branna begged me to release him. I think I may ask her if the Red Wolf will take him with them when they leave.”

  “That would be so splendid of you.” Dallandra favored him with her best smile. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” For good measure, she allowed Oth to kiss her hand as she was leaving.

  As Dallandra walked across the ward toward the gates, she saw Gerran, a candle lantern in his hand, heading for the gwerbret’s squat stone gaol. She hailed him, and he strolled over to greet her.

  “Lord Oth spoke to me,” Gerran said. “I’m on my way to get that kitchen lad out of gaol.”

  “That gladdens my heart,” Dallandra said. “Oth kept his word, then.”

  “He generally does.”

  “Good. Do you know where Salamander is?”

  “He went down to your encampment some while ago to fetch his horse and gear.”

  “I’ll see him there, then. May you have a good journey home.”

  “My thanks, and the same to you, though we’ll see you again at the muster.”

  Down in the meadow below Cengarn, the Westfolk had set up the bare bones of a camp. Dallandra’s was the only tent they’d bothered to raise. Since the night was clear and warm, the men, even the prince, would sleep outside. Everyone wanted to pack up and leave as fast as possible on the morrow morning.

  Dallandra found Salamander sitting at the campfire with Calonderiel and some of the archers. When he saw her, he got up and quirked an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Dallandra said, “I do need to talk with you. Let’s go down to the river.”

  The river was running low now that the summer was well advanced. The ford where Jill had died lay shallow, marked out with white stones that seemed to shimmer in the faint light of a quarter moon.

  “Do you know where Rori and Arzosah are?” Dallandra said.

  “More or less,” Salamander said. “Arzosah’s on her way here. Rori seems to be somewhere off to the west.”

  “I take it he’s not going to come and let me look at that wound.”

  “Not soon, apparently. Arzosah will know more. I’ll contact you through the fire when I know.” Salamander stooped down and picked up a flat stone from the ground. He straightened again and tossed it with a snap of his wrist onto the surface of the ford. It only skipped twice before it sank into the water. “Not a good omen.”

  “It’s a good thing that’s only a children’s game,” Dalla said, smiling. “We’ve had enough genuine bad omens as it is.”

  “Yes, alas, alack, and welladay. Zakh Gral, I’m pleased to report, has apparently had no omens at all. Everything continues peaceful there.”

  “Good. Have you seen any sign of the raven mazrak?”

  “I haven’t, not a trace, track, or hint.”

  “I keep thinking about that wretched gate I closed. Why would he have left it open like that? It must have cost him a tremendous amount of power to build it, and why just leave it? You know, he might have been inside it at the time.”

  Salamander laughed in a long peal of delight. “Let us hope so, O princess of powers perilous! That would answer the question, wouldn’t it, of why he disappeared as soon as it was closed?”

  “It certainly would, but stay on your guard. It’s not a surety, and besides, anyone powerful enough to create that thing can doubtless find his way out again.”

  “Oh, most assuredly, but let us most devoutly pray it takes him a good long while.”

  Yet even as he spoke, Dallandra felt the frost of a danger-omen along her back. “Not long enough,” she said. “Not long enough at all.”

  In the morning Branna woke early. She hurried downstairs, but a bleary-eyed servant told her that the Westfolk had already struck their tents and ridden away.

  “The gerthddyn’s still here, though,” the lass told her. “I saw him badgering the cook for an early breakfast.”

  In but a few moments Branna saw him as well, when he came slouching into the great hall with a big chunk of bread in one hand and an apple in the other. He sat himself down on a bench in the curve of the wall over on the riders’ side of hall. Branna decided to risk a lecture from Aunt Galla and went over to join him there.

  “It gladdens my heart you’ll be riding back with us,” Branna said. “I’ve got ever so many questions to ask you.”

  “And here I’d hoped you were glad of my sterling character and splendid company,” Salamander said with a grin.

  “You’re splendid company, sure enough, but I’ve got my doubts about your character.”

  “Wise of you.” Salamander paused for a bite of bread.

  “Tell me somewhat. Rori, the silver wyrm, he truly is your brother, isn’t he?”

  With his mouth full, Salamander nodded.

  “I thought you were just making up one of your tales, but Dallandra said it was true. She didn’t want to tell me how he got to be a dragon, though. She said I wouldn’t understand. Why not?”

  Salamander swallowed hastily. “Probably because you don’t know enough about the dweomer yet. Tell me, do you know what an etheric double is? How about the body of light? Who are the Guardians?”

  “Oh.” Branna felt her disappointment like a weight across her shoulders. “I don’t know any of that.”

  “The dweomer, my turtledove, is a very complex thing, more complex doubtless than anything you’ve ever tried to learn in your life. Like all things, you have to start at the beginning, not at the middle nor at the end.”

  “Blast! I was afraid of that.”

  “But there’s one thing I can tell you about Rori, and that is, he’s gone quite daft. Arzosah told me so, and she’d be the one to know. Although—” Salamander frowned down at his bread for a moment. “Although, to be honest, Rori was daft long before he got himself changed into a dragon.”

  The sensation of a double mind rose again to trouble her. She should know exactly what Salamander meant, or so she felt, and yet of course she’d not even known the dragon’s name until a few weeks past.

  When the other noble-born women came downstairs, Branna left Salamander’s congenial company to join them on the honor side of the great hall. Drwmigga went to sit at Ridvar’s right at the gwerbret’s table. Although there was no sign of Adranna, Trenni walked down the stairs with her grandmother and sat at Cadryc’s table. These days Solla always sat with the Red Wolf women, since she was about to leave Dun Cengarn and take up her new position as one of Galla’s serving women. Branna took a chair next to Solla’s, and Neb joined her there.

  “Where’s Gerran?” Lady Galla asked the tieryn.

  “Oh, he asked my permission to eat with the men.” Cadryc waved a hand in the direction of the commoners’ side.

  “I can see that, my dearest, but why?”

  “Um, well, um.” Cadryc considered for a moment, then shrugged. “He’s not ready to face our Matto, he told me. The lad saw.”

  No one spoke, but Branna was aware of everyone at table, either glancing at Trenni or pointedly not looking her way.

  “I know what he saw,” Trenni said. “I don’t care, and Matto shouldn’t either.”

  “My dear, dear child.” Galla made her voice soothing and soft. “You don’t need to think about—”

  “Granna, how can I not think about it?” Trenni gulped for breath, as if summoning courage. “Anyway, Matto won’t eat in the great hall, he
told me. He won’t come down till we leave for home.” She lowered her voice to a murmur. “It’s because of his grace.”

  “And there’s another tale for another day,” Cadryc said firmly. “Let’s all eat our blasted breakfast! We’ll be leaving on the morrow, and that’ll be an end to it.”

  Branna and Neb exchanged troubled glances. Since Neb had told her about the siege and its aftermath in detail, Branna knew that the gwerbret had wanted Matyc killed. Ridvar’s woven a nasty little trap around my uncle, Branna thought. Ridvar had every right as gwerbret to dispose of the son of a traitor, but Cadryc had the duty as well as the desire to defend his grandson. Clan and overlord, overlord and clan—those were the two strands that bound a noble-born man’s life, and often enough they pulled in opposite directions, or threatened to hang him. If Prince Voran hadn’t been there—Branna refused to finish the thought, not on such a sunny morning, not with everyone she loved safe, at least for the nonce.

  With the meal finished, Cadryc and Neb stayed in the great hall to allow Neb to write a letter to Mirryn, telling him the latest news and announcing that they’d all be home in a few days. The women went back to their hall. As they climbed the staircase, Solla lingered, looking back down toward the table where Gerran sat, unmistakably marked out by his red hair.

  “I’ll have to talk with Gerro,” Branna said. “He really should start eating meals with us. And I’ll wager that Aunt Galla seats him next to you.”

  “Why?” Solla said. “It was foolish of me, no doubt, to think he might—” she hesitated briefly, “—might find me of interest.”

  “Don’t lose heart so easily! Gerran’s learned to keep everything to himself, all these years. He doesn’t part with words willingly.”

  “True-spoken.” Solla looked away. “Alas.”

  Later that day, Branna was crossing the great hall when she saw Gerran sitting alone at the head of the warband’s tables. He was leaning precariously back in his chair, his feet propped up on a nearby bench, and gazing into the servants’ hearth while he nursed a tankard of ale. Branna decided that as a near-sister, she had the right to sound him out on the matter of his marriage. She marched over, and he hastily swung his feet off the bench and sat up straight.