The Gold Falcon (15 page)

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he announced.

“Too bad.” Gerran caught the lad’s gaze with his own. “Do it anyway.”

Ynedd crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Gerran slapped him across the face.

“You can’t do that to me!” Ynedd’s voice rose to a squeal. “You’re just a commoner.”

“But he can.” Coryn got up and trotted over. “He’s the captain, and you’ve got to obey him. You truly truly do.”

Ynedd’s eyes filled with tears, but he picked up the sword. After a dozen times or so, Gerran saw that his little hand shook on the heavy hilt and told him that he could stop.

“There,” Gerran said. “You’ve done somewhat you didn’t think you could do.”

Ynedd shrugged and glared at the cobblestones. Gerran sent the lads off to the stables to get their ponies for a riding lesson. As he started after them, he noticed Clae, standing and watching some paces away.

“Am I doing somewhat wrong?” Clae said.

“Not unless you’re supposed to be working,” Gerran said.

“I’m not. I just wanted to see. I wish I could learn to fight.”

“Oh, do you now? Why?”

“So I could grow up to be a rider and kill Horsekin.”

Something flat and cold in the lad’s voice caught Gerran’s attention, making him remember what had brought the lad to the dun. He knelt on one knee so he could look him in the face.

“That’s an honorable enough thing,” Gerran said. “How old are you? Do you know?”

“Eight, sir. My da always kept count. Could I ever be a rider? I’m only a scribe’s son.”

“So? Riders aren’t noble-born. But here, training is hard work. I wager you’d tire of it soon enough.”

“I wouldn’t. When I got tired, I’d just think of my uncle, and I’d hate them all over again, and I wouldn’t be tired anymore.”

Gerran had never seen such cold rage in a child’s eyes.

“I keep dreaming about our village,” Clae went on. “The Horsekin come, and I try to stop them, and they laugh at me. I hate that dream.”

“I’ll wager you do. Have you told Neb about it?”

“I haven’t. He’d only tell me I shouldn’t be dwelling on what we can’t change. You know what hurts the worst? When we were up by the waterfall watching them, I knew I couldn’t do anything to stop them. Naught!” His soft voice cracked. “I never want to feel that way again.”

Gerran considered him, a healthy child and big for his age, but it was the hatred that impressed Gerran the most. A desire for glory made most Deverry men want to be warriors, but it took harshness, that bitter streak in mind and soul, for a man to become a successful one.

“Tell you what,” Gerran said. “If your brother agrees, I’ll take you on, but I’ll warn you, it’s hard work, and even a wooden sword will hurt if you get hit with it. Fair?”

“Fair.” Clae grinned at him. “Will the tieryn let me?”

“No doubt, if I ask him, but the question is whether your brother will let you. He’s the head of your clan now. You ask him and tell him to come talk to me this afternoon.”

While he gave his noble charges their riding lesson, Gerran occasionally found himself thinking about Clae, who reminded him of himself as a child. He could remember his own burning rage that the Horsekin had killed his father. The hatred still existed, though transmuted to something cold after all these years, as clean as a new sword blade. The gods of war had given Clae just such a splendid gift.

When they returned to the dun, Gerran found Neb waiting for him. The scribe came with him to the stables and held the horse’s bridle while Gerran unsaddled him.

“I take it Clae spoke with you,” Gerran said.

“He did,” Neb said. “You know, he’s the only bloodkin I have left in the world, and it aches my heart to see him wanting to join a warband.”

“I can understand that.”

“But I can’t stand in his way either. From what everyone in the dun tells me, he’ll have the best swordsman in all Deverry to learn from.”

“Indeed?” Gerran felt himself blush at the compliment. “They exaggerate by a fair bit.”

“We’ll see.” Neb smiled, more than a little ruefully. “But if you’ll take Clae on, I’ll agree. His wyrd isn’t mine, and there’s naught I can do about that.”

“True spoken. But he’ll have to serve a sort of apprenticeship. If he doesn’t have the raw gifts he needs to make a swordsman, I’ll turn him back over to you.”

“Fair enough. I—” Neb stopped in midsentence and stared at something over Gerran’s shoulder.

When Gerran turned, he saw Branna, walking across the ward at some distance. From the look in Neb’s eyes Gerran suddenly realized that the scribe was besotted with the lass. With the realization came a baffling thought: deep in his soul Gerran knew that Neb had the better claim on her. Yet the thought of stepping back for the scribe—this skinny weakling—why he even knew how to read!
I’ll not give up as easily as that
, Gerran told himself.
We’ll just see who wins her.

Without a word aloud Gerran turned to follow her. Neb did the same, but they both stopped when they saw Salamander coming to meet her. The gerthddyn bowed to her with such courtly grace that she smiled and allowed him to take her arm as they strolled away.

“Curse his very soul!” Gerran whispered.

“It’s not his soul that troubles me,” Neb said.

In sullen brotherhood they turned and strode back to the ward, out of sight of Branna and the good-looking gerthddyn both.

 

Behind the broch, at a pleasant distance from the pigsty and the dung heap, the cook had planted a kitchen garden. Slender beds of herbs separated each plot of cabbages, turnips, and the like. In their aromatic midst stood a little bench, where Salamander led Branna for their talk.

“Tell me somewhat,” Salamander said. “What do you think of young Neb? And of Gerran for that matter.”

“Everyone seems to be asking me that these days,” Branna said. “Are you trying to marry me off, too?”

“Do I look like a village matchmaker?”

“Truly, you don’t. So why did you ask me about Neb and Gerran?”

“They both seem besotted with you. That’s all.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Branna sounded deeply surprised. “How very odd.”

“Now here! Not so odd for a pretty lass like you.”

“But very odd for a lass who has no dowry to speak of.”

“You don’t value yourself highly, do you, my lady?”

“How could I? My stepmother never let a chance go by to remind me how lowly I was. She used to suggest that I become a priestess, since obviously I’d never make a good marriage.”

“A nasty sort, was she? A veritable shrew, virago, termagant, and so on and so forth.”

“All of that, good sir, and more. Do you know what it’s like to have your kin begrudge the food you eat?”

“I do, oddly enough,” Salamander said. “But I didn’t have to suffer it as long. How did you manage to keep from going mad?”

“What? And let her claim a victory?”

They shared a laugh.

“But your question’s worthy of an answer,” Branna went on. “At first, I wasn’t truly alone. When I was small, there were the servants’ children in my father’s dun to play with—not my precious stepbrothers, of course, who weren’t allowed to talk to someone so far beneath them.”

“It’s a pity your stepmother didn’t get carried off by Horsekin. They would have understood each other very well.”

Branna grinned at him, then went on. “I did have Aunt Galla to look out for my interests, too.” The grin disappeared. “Until her husband was offered this demesne, and they moved out here.”

“So our good tieryn’s not held this dun for very long?”

“He hasn’t. He and Galla used to live about twenty miles east of here, not far from my father’s dun, which is farther east still. But when the king established this demesne, the gwerbret assigned it to Cadryc. I saw Aunt Galla but rarely after that, and the servants’ children had all been set to working by then.”

“But you survived.”

“I did. I learned how to be alone, you see. I made up little tales to ease my heart, like, about some other time and some other place in Deverry.” She looked away with a sigh. A long strand of hair had pulled free of the clasp and hung beside her cheek. With an irritated wave of her hand she flipped it back, but when it fell forward again, she ignored it.

“What sort of tales?” Salamander said. “I find myself most curious, if you’d care to tell me.”

“Oh, well, they were stupid things, I suppose.” Branna suddenly blushed. “I’m sorry I mentioned them.”

“Don’t be. Please, they can’t be very stupid if you told them. You strike me as a levelheaded lass.”

“I do? Most people call me strange.”

“Most people are half-blind no matter how good their eyes. But I
am
a gerthddyn, you know. Hearing about someone else’s tales always interests me.”

Another sigh, another glance away—for a moment she perched so uneasily on the edge of the bench that he feared she’d get up and bolt; then she settled back.

“I made up this other then, this other when, you see, another world, really, though it was much like Deverry. And in it, this world—” She paused for a moment.

Salamander gave her an encouraging smile.

“Well, I used to pretend that I was a mighty sorcerer. I traveled all over the kingdom, and to Bardek, and to marvelous islands far far away. I could call down a strange blue fire to light my way, and once, when I was trapped in a burning building, I commanded the wind to save me.”

“Sounds splendid, indeed.”

“In one tale, I could even turn myself into a bird and fly.”

“And this bird, it was a falcon, wasn’t it?”

Branna slewed around on the bench and stared at him while the color drained from her face. “How do you know that?” she was whispering. “Or are sorcer ous powers a common delusion among lonely females?”

“Not at all. Most lonely lasses dream about meeting a prince who loves them madly.”

She laughed with a toss of her head, and in that gesture he could see the hard common sense that once had been hers, in that other when, that other where. “True enough,” she said. “But how did you know about my falcon?”

“My mysterious bardic powers, of course. Ah, I see you don’t believe me.”

“You’re not a bard. If you were, maybe I’d believe you, but you’re a gerthddyn. How did you know?”

“Ah, therein lies an enigma, most recondite, obscure, and elusive.” Salamander paused. He could hear voices coming toward them. “And it’s one you absolutely must solve for yourself.” He stood up with a wave in the direction of the voices. “Here comes our good tieryn and his son, so, alas, I must leave you.”

Branna jumped up and grabbed him by the shirt with both hands. “Tell me, you chattering elf!” She let him go and stepped back, blushing furiously. “A thousand apologies! I don’t know what made me do that. I mean, you’re not even an elf. It was wretchedly rude of me. Please forgive me!”

“You’re forgiven, and here’s one last bit of advice. Be careful around Gerran. He might carry the falcon mark, but I doubt me if he’ll ever turn into a bird and fly.”

“I figured that out on my own, good sir.”

“Good sir, is it?” Salamander grinned at her, and in a moment she smiled in return.

Arguing in quiet voices, Cadryc and Mirryn rounded the corner and bore down upon them. When Salamander jumped back out of the way, the two lords finally realized that they had an audience.

“Apologies,” Cadryc snapped. “Branna, my dear, I didn’t see you.”

“No harm done, Uncle.” Branna rose and curtsied. “I’ll just be going inside.”

The three men paused and watched her trot off, holding her skirts up to keep them free of the dirty ground.

“I’d best be going, too,” Salamander said. “My lords?”

They nodded their permission. Salamander hurried away, but he ducked behind the cook’s little gardening shed to eavesdrop.

“I’ll not argue one word more,” Cadryc was saying. “We’re leaving on the morrow, and you’re not, and that’s that.”

“But—”

“I said not one word more!”

In a few moments Mirryn stormed past Salamander without seeing him. Cadryc followed more slowly, shaking his head. Salamander stepped out and bowed to him.

“Your Grace?” Salamander said. “Forgive me if I presume, but one day your son is going to have to try his wings.”

Cadryc tossed his head like a startled horse and glowered at him. Salamander bowed again, then smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner.

“Ah, well,” Cadryc said at last. “You’re right enough, gerthddyn. It’s just—” He paused, chewing on the corners of his mustache. “It’s just—well, you’re a gerthddyn. You must hear plenty of strange tales, eh?”

“More than a few, truly, my lord.”

“Imph.” Cadryc hesitated for a few moments more, then shrugged. “Well, there was a prophecy, you see. I’ve never told Mirryn or my wife about it, because to tell you the honest truth, I’m cursed ashamed of believing it.”

“A prophecy? From a priest?”

“A priest of a sort, I suppose you’d call him. It was what? about ten summers ago now. The Horsekin were raiding up north, and the old gwerbret summoned his allies. This was the raid where he was killed, come to think of it. Anyway. We managed to find their stinking ugly camp, and we fell on them by surprise and slaughtered the guards and their reserves. We freed the human captives, some of the gwerbret’s farm folk, and then some others who’d been Horsekin slaves.” Cadryc paused, looking away as if getting his memories in order. “Now, among the human men was this one scabby fellow, dressed all in rags, and his feet were all swollen and crusted with calluses, just like he’d never worn shoes in his life. Turned out he hadn’t, actually. But all the folk who’d been born slaves treated him like he was a king. The gwerbret’s farm folk told us that he was a priest of their cursed foreign goddess.”