The Gold Falcon (36 page)

Salamander bowed his head. “That’s all I’d ever ask, Your Holiness. So be it, if the council wills.”

“In the meantime, you shall have food and drink.” Lakanza clapped her hands three times, and two armed Horsekin stepped forward from the crowd. “Do take him there and have things done as I have said.”

The two guards grabbed Salamander’s arms and twisted them behind him. He allowed himself one grunt of pain.

“Nah!” Lakanza snapped, then spoke quickly in the Horsekin tongue.

The guards released their hold. One laid a heavy hand on Salamander’s shoulder.

“One last thing!” Rocca said, then caught her breath in a sob. “I pray you believe me, Evan, that I never meant you harm.”

“I do believe you. Please, forgive me for accusing you. I was so confused, I just didn’t know what to think. Forgive me?”

“Of course I do.” Rocca managed a trembling smile. “Of course.”

The guards turned him around and marched him away. As they walked toward the main building of the fort, they paused to grab his little table dagger from his belt and run rough hands over his clothes, searching apparently for weapons.

“You’ve found what cold steel I have,” Salamander said.

The guards looked at each other, shrugged, and went on searching. Whether or not they spoke Deverrian he couldn’t tell. They marched him into the main building of the fort, one huge room that still lacked a proper floor, then hauled him up the stairs of the wooden tower. At the top they opened a little door and shoved him through. A wood floor, an unglazed window, a small hearth set into one wall—other than that, the room stood utterly bare. One of the guards pointed to the window, said something in his own language, then laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. Most likely the jest involved his being thrown through the window and down on the morrow. The guards slammed the door shut, and Salamander heard the rattle of metal chain.

A woman’s voice, firm and commanding—Rocca, though he couldn’t understand the words. The door opened again.

“I’ve brought you somewhat,” she said. “To cheer your heart this night of waiting.”

“My thanks, unworthy wretch that I am.”

She handed him a miniature quiver holding four tiny arrows, each about three inches long, each dyed a different color. “This be a prayer token. The black arrow does stand for Vandar’s world, sunk in its depravity. The red be the blood that will wash and redeem it, the white the purity of the cleansed world, and the gold—” Here Rocca paused for a smile, “The gold it does stand for the life we all will share in Alshandra’s kingdom.”

Salamander clutched it over his heart with what he hoped was a suitably pious expression. “You’ve given me great cheer indeed. Again I thank you.”

Rocca’s smile froze into something close to tears, and she turned quickly away. “I’d best be getting myself to the council.”

Rocca hurried out, and the guards once more slammed the door. He could tell by the rattle of the chain and a thump of iron hitting wood that they had barred and tied it. He waited until their footsteps had gone down the stairs, then went to the window and looked out onto a straight drop far down. Below, gilded by the last of the afternoon light, lay cut blocks of granite, piled this way and that. A man who fell from the window would land on chiseled edges, not merely flat stone.

From his perch he could also see most of the fort spread out below and the land beyond as well. He spent some time carefully memorizing what he saw, noting details here and there, such as the postern gate and a half-finished course of stone running along the cliff top. Apparently, they planned an outer fortification that would enclose the entire citadel. Inside, he saw a number of water wells, and here and there deep pits lined with stone—food storage, perhaps? It seemed that the Horsekin were well aware that they might have to stand a long siege, but whom, he wondered, did they fear? Vandar’s spawn, perhaps, or perhaps the Gel da’Thae or even another sect or tribe of Horsekin.
More’s the pity
, he thought,
that you won’t be staying long enough to find out.

By then the sunset was turning the scattered clouds into streaks of flame against the sky. Salamander used them as a focus and contacted Dallandra. When he could see her face and the help and safety it represented, his thoughts ran away from him in a sudden spate of words and half-voiced feelings.

“Don’t babble at me!” Dallandra said. “What’s so wrong?”

“My apologies, and truly, it’s babbling that got me into this, a bitter lesson I fear for one so enamored of his own voice as I am. I’ve reached the new Horsekin settlement, and as we feared, it’s a fortress, all right, still a-building, but a dun nonetheless. It looks to me like it’s been planned to stand long sieges, too. No wonder they didn’t want any farmers claiming land out here.”

“By the Black Sun herself!” Dalla’s image briefly wavered. “Fearful, indeed! But at least you’ll be able to describe it to Cal and the gwerbret, too, for that matter. I can’t imagine that Ridvar will refuse to ask for the king’s aid now.”

“Nah, nah, nah, O, mistress of mighty magicks! Not so fast. Rocca brought me here, and we were met by the high priestess herself. All seemed to be going well. Her holiness was downright welcoming in fact, but then something rather awkward happened. I seem to have aroused the jealousy of a fledgling priestess. She insisted on seeing if I could pass a test. They have a silver dagger. I don’t know how or why they have it, but they do.”

“Did it have a little wyvern on the blade?”

“Yes, actually. How—”

“I know whose it is. I saw it in an omen-dream, but never mind that now.” In her image Dallandra’s face seemed to have turned a dull fearful gray. “I take it they made you touch the thing, and it showed you up—”

“As Vandar’s spawn. Exactly. Now, all is not yet lost. The head priestess here seems like a truly pious sort, and she’s convened a council to decide my fate. I’ve managed to convince them I didn’t know I had elven blood, you see. I spun an elaborate tale of being a bastard who’d never known his father.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad you’re so good at lying.”

“Thank you—I suppose. But in the end I managed to convince them to lock me up at the top of a high tower.”

“Did you?” The color returned to Dalla’s face. “Well, then, that gives me hope! But be careful, no matter what happens.”

“Fear not! You’re learning to appreciate mendacity, whilst I’m beginning to value caution, canniness, circumspection, and all its kin. However that may be, I shan’t die before sunset tomorrow, no matter how the council votes.”

“That will give you a little time, yes. Well, tell me, will you, as soon as you know the verdict? I’m going to go talk with Cal and the prince.”

Once Dallandra broke off contact, Salamander sat down in a corner and watched the sunset sky first flame, then fade. He wondered how long the council would debate—not long, he’d wager. Since he was a stranger with only Rocca to argue in his favor, they’d doubtless decide quickly to kill him.

Just as the hazy twilight was giving way to night and the wheel of stars shone out, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He scrambled up, his heart pounding, and took a few steps toward the door. It opened to reveal an elderly human slave, carrying a basket over one arm, and two armed Horsekin guards, one holding a candle lantern.

“Food,” the servant said. “And water.”

He set the basket down, watching Salamander all the while, then backed out of the room as if he were afraid that the prisoner would spring upon him like a beast. The locks clanged shut again, and Salamander heard them all clattering down the stairs. He picked up the basket and peered in—half a loaf of fresh warm bread, a honeycomb in a twist of leaf, some slices of cold meat, and a leather bottle of water. When he took out the bread, he found beneath it a metal plate, heavily embossed. Running his fingers over it in the dark told him little about the design—some flowers, a circle of what was most likely writing.

“Decent of them,” he muttered, “and their doom.” He settled down to eat.

For much of the evening he slept, gathering strength. Toward midnight another visitor came up the stairs, this one treading so lightly that at first Salamander was unsure if someone were coming or not. Then a hand rattled the chain.

“Evan?” It was Rocca’s voice, whispering, trembling in grief. “Evan, be you awake?”

“I am.” He crossed to the door and spoke quietly. “I take it the council goes badly.”

“It does, not that my heart be void of hope, but only Lakanza does seem to care about the justice of the thing. The others—I do think that Sidro, she did poison their minds or some such.”

“They may just be afraid. I can’t blame them.”

“That be so noble of you!” Her voice caught, as if she choked back tears. “I did come to beg your forgiveness once again.”

“And you have it, as you always shall. Here, if I didn’t even realize that I’m tainted Vandar’s spawn, how could you have known?”

“True-spoken.” But she sounded no less miserable. “The council, they did end the debate for the night, but tomorrow they meet again after morning prayers.”

“I see. Tell me somewhat, if it’s safe for you to linger a moment. Sidro—you said she’d been cast off by a man?”

“Just that. Sidro were ill treated by a man she loved, left deserted and alone after her family did scorn her and force her to leave their home. She was with child, you see. Lakanza did offer her shelter at our old shrine. Sidro’s child did die in her arms not two days after it were born. In penance she did vow to serve our goddess all her life.”

“That’s a sad thing, then.” Salamander decided that one more lie on top of all the others wouldn’t ruin his wyrd forever. “I’ll pray that I may forgive her, too.”

“She deserves far less than that, but it does speak well of you.” Once again Rocca’s voice sounded full of tears. “I’d best be gone.”

Before he could say anything more, he heard her turn away, and her footsteps hurried down the stairs.

The morning, of course, would bring light, and Salamander needed darkness if he were to escape. He went to the window and looked up, using the stars as a focus, but try as he might, he couldn’t reach Dallandra’s mind. He did get a confused impression of her feelings, that she was mildly angry at something, a little frightened as well, but mostly methodical and intent upon some task. It occurred to him that most likely someone in camp had injured themselves in an accident, and as the alar’s healer, she’d been called out of a sound sleep. He decided against waiting until he could talk with her. The sooner he escaped from Zakh Gral, the better.

First Salamander stripped off his clothing, then considered what he could carry—not much and still get clean away. He made a sack out of his brigga by tying the legs together. Into it he put the quiver of miniature arrows, a bit of building stone he found upon the floor, and the plate his dinner had arrived upon. His boots—he weighed them in his hand—heavy, but without them he wouldn’t get far. He stuffed them in, then cinched the sack closed with his belt. He set it carefully on the corner of the windowsill.

And what would happen to Rocca when the guards found him gone? Would the razkanir blame her? If they did, she would die a very slow death at their hands. He had no doubt about that. How could he—he grinned at a sudden idea. Among the old ashes on the dead hearth, he found a lump of charcoal. The smooth wall of the chamber served him for parchment. Still grinning, he began to write in careful letters. (In the Deverry language his words rhymed, unlike those below.)

At this point he dropped the formal rhyme and meter and scrawled his letters. “She comes! May I—” He broke the word off, then let the charcoal drop onto the floor.

“There,” he muttered. “We’ll see how that takes them! Or wait—they think dweomer light comes from the goddess.” He raised both hands above his head and called upon the Wildfolk of Aethyr. In a shimmering silver mass they appeared, dodging this way and that. “Lords of Aethyr!” Salamander whispered. “I beg and beseech you! Fill this room with light long past my leaving of it.”

The silver mass shattered. A hundred separate glitters of light rushed to the walls, to the ceiling, gathered and spread until the chamber filled with glow brighter than ten full moons.

“My thanks, most sincerely! O Great Lords of Aethyr, I beseech thee, let this light shine until dawn!”

From somewhere in his mind too deep for words a feeling rose—a tingling sensation all over his body, a raising of the hair on the back of his neck. The Lords had agreed.

The most difficult dweomer working of all lay ahead. Salamander went to the window and laid his hands on the sill beside the improvised sack. As he stared up at the stars, he felt power gather. Slowly he invoked more, felt it flow through him until his body became a mere channel, a thin shell, surrounding the power coursing through it. In his mind, he formulated the image of a black-and-white magpie, then sent the picture forward through his eyes until it seemed to perch on the windowsill between his hands. With a wrench of will, he transferred his consciousness over to the bird form until it seemed that he looked out of the small yellow eyes.

Now came the crux. He drew more and more of the life substance from the body standing behind his consciousness into the bird form until the magpie seemed solid and the man’s body only an illusion. Since he’d not worked this spell in over forty years, he had to fight for concentration. One slip now meant death. He called on the holy names of the gods, called on Alshandra, too, in a moment of near-hysterical drollery, and kept on sucking more and more of the etheric substance into his new body. At last, as he uttered one last mighty Name, a sound like thunder burst behind his eyes, and the etheric substance dragged the physical with it. Salamander the man was gone from the chamber. A magpie—an abnormally huge magpie—perched on the windowsill.