The Gold Falcon (49 page)

“Stop it!” Dallandra’s voice cut into his vision.

Rocca and the stone vanished. Salamander felt as dazed as a drunken man abruptly revived by a bucket of cold water.

“Ye gods,” he mumbled. “I hope I didn’t put us in danger.”

“No, but you put yourself in danger. Your aura’s dancing about like a drop of water on a griddle stone.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to scry, I just—oh, wait. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Exactly.” Dallandra laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go back to camp. We both need sleep.”

Salamander got up, then helped her rise. Together they began the walk back.

“I nearly forgot in all the excitement,” Salamander said. “Did you get to have that talk with Neb and Branna?”

“I didn’t, no,” Dallandra said. “Neb stayed at the council till late, and Branna’s aunt needed all her attention. The poor woman! Honelg’s wife is her daughter.”

“I knew I never should have mentioned Honelg, curse it all.”

“No, no, you did the right thing. Honelg is dangerous. Galla told me a fair bit about him. He sounds loathsome.”

“I’d agree with that judgment, yes.”

“But in the morning, you and I will need to find a way to take Neb and Branna some place where no one can overhear. They seem to have stumbled onto the truth. I’d like to know how.”

The noontime sun fell in a thin slit through the window in Branna’s chamber and turned Dallandra’s pale hair to a glowing silver, as shiny as a polished sword blade. As soon as the town gates had opened, Dallandra had come up to the dun, where she’d found Neb and Branna breakfasting in the great hall. The three of them had gone to Branna and Neb’s chamber, the only place in the dun where they had enough privacy—and indeed, enough quiet—to discuss the dweomer and its secrets. They’d talked all morning, Branna realized, though the time had galloped by. Among other things, Dallandra had confirmed Neb’s insight, that indeed, in another life they had both been masters of dweomerlore.

“There’s one thing I truly don’t understand,” Branna said, then paused to choose careful words. “If we were those other people, why can’t we remember more? I could remember a fair bit when I was asleep, of course, but Neb never had dreams such as I did. But I never—well—just remembered. When I was but a child, why didn’t I have the feeling that Branna wasn’t my real name—just for an example, like.”

“I’ll wager the answer leads to another question,” Neb said, smiling a little. “So far everything else you’ve told us has.”

Dallandra laughed, nodding her agreement. “I can give you a simple enough answer, but it won’t tell you much. The part of your mind that does the remembering quite simply isn’t reborn. Most of a person’s mind dies when they die, unless they’re a highly skilled dweomermaster. Even the masters lose a tremendous amount of knowledge and memories. Here’s a way of thinking about it. Suppose you were setting off on a journey. And suppose you had two big sacks to carry things in, and you’d crammed them full of possessions. Then suppose the sacks were taken away, and you had only a single pocket to carry what you treasured most. You’d have to leave most of your things behind, wouldn’t you?”

“I would, truly.” Branna said.

“The memories that do remain,” Dallandra went on, “are those forged from deep feelings or events that have touched your soul, such as a great love or a great hatred. Feelings don’t necessarily bring words and images with them, though. That’s why you can recognize someone without knowing why they’re so important to you.”

“Like I recognized Salamander,” Branna said. “But, you know, I called him a chattering elf. I didn’t have the slightest idea why I had. Now you tell me that Jill called him that all the time, but it doesn’t sound like the sort of thing you’d remember from life to life.”

“It doesn’t, truly, but dweomermasters have highly trained minds. They remember more than people who’ve not spent years developing their memories.”

“That makes sense,” Neb put in. “But those dreams of hers! They were so detailed, and you’ve told us now that they were accurate.”

“There’s a reason for that, but I’m not sure if I can explain it. I doubt if either of you remember the meanings of the words that I need. Every craft has its own special words, whether it’s smithing or carpentry or dweomer-craft. Tell me, does the term ‘astral plane’ mean anything to either of you?”

Branna glanced at Neb, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Not to me,” Branna said. “I don’t even known what a plane is.”

“Well, a plane is a craft term for a part of the world that most folk can’t see—or sense in any other way either. There are a number of these planes, and the astral is one of them. Let’s see, how can I put this? Part of the astral plane stores events the way writing stores words. The lore tells us that a record exists there of everything that’s ever happened. These records are all horribly jumbled up, and sometimes they’re unreliable, but they’re there.”

“Could I be seeing them when I’m asleep?” Branna said.

“You follow me quite well.” Dallandra smiled at her. “Eventually you’ll both learn to see these images when you’re awake enough to use certain tools you’ll also learn. That way you’ll be able to tell true from false.”

“It sounds like a true bard’s visions of the past,” Neb said. “I’m glad to hear it, too. I’ve been wondering why don’t I remember things the way she does.”

“I’m not sure.” Dallandra raised her hands and turned them palms up. “I’m hoping to find the answer to that, though.”

“I’d be grateful if you could,” Neb said. “But, at least, from what you’re saying, I can get my memories back from this astral thing if naught else.”

“Just so.” Dallandra paused to glance out the window. “Ye gods, the day is going fast! We have a good many more things to discuss, and it’s going to take us a very long time indeed. I think we’ve talked enough for one day.”

Neb was staring at the floor, frowning a little as if he were thinking things over. Branna realized that she was feeling more than a little disappointed. She’d somehow hoped that Dallandra could weave some sort of spell that would miraculously turn her and Neb into dweomermasters in a heartbeat, but now she knew better. There was so much lore, far more than anyone could learn in a short while, not even someone like her, who remembered bits and pieces of it.
Patience,
she told herself.
Patience means safety.

“But can I ask one more question?” Branna said. “Is dweomerlore the only kind of memory that someone can recover on her own?”

“Usually,” Dallandra said, “but there are exceptions. Some kinds of knowledge shape a person’s etheric double—I’ll explain that term later—and that, in turn, shapes his body and skills.”

“Like swordsmanship?” Branna said. “Gerran’s always been a marvel and a half with a blade.”

“You do piece things together, don’t you?” Dallandra said, smiling. “That would appear to be one of those skills, truly.”

Loud voices passed in the hallway beyond the chamber. Someone knocked on the door.

“My lady?” It was Midda, yelling over the general noise. “Are you in there?”

“I am.” Branna got up and trotted over to the door. “Do you need me for somewhat?”

“I don’t, but Lady Drwmigga’s summoning the noble-born women. It’s time for her to display her needlework from her wedding chest.”

“I’ll be right there.” Branna turned back to the others. “Dallandra, did you want to come with me? It’s a thing new brides always do on the feast day, and I truly can’t get out of going.”

“I would, actually.” Dallandra got up, smoothing down her borrowed dresses. “I’ve never seen a Deverry wedding before.”

“Most aren’t this grand, but then, Ridvar’s of very high rank.”

Normally Branna enjoyed this particular part of a wedding celebration, but as they sat in the crowded women’s hall, she found her mind wandering back to the dweomerlore. She felt as if the normal life of a grand dun was flowing past her like a river on its way to some destination that meant nothing to her. In years past she would have been daydreaming about an elegant wedding of her own, but no longer. If Drwmigga’s life was going to flow like a smooth broad river, then her own would be more like a sea, with storms and half-hidden rocks and shoals where the waves broke in huge wings of white spray—dangers, yes, but it promised triumphs as well.

Once the womenfolk had exclaimed over Drwmigga’s fine needlework, everyone but her serving women withdrew to let her dress for the wedding feast. A page had already taken the embroidered wedding shirt she’d made for her future husband to Gwerbret Ridvar. When Dallandra went off to find Salamander, Branna decided to walk around the ward. Always in the back of her mind was the coming battle for Lord Honelg’s dun. Whenever she let herself think about Adranna, shut up with a madman for a husband, she felt cold and sick with worry. While the womenfolk carried out the pleasant rituals of the wedding, Ridvar, the two princes, Tieryn Cadryc, and their captains were planning the campaign.

Down by the dun gates she met Gerran, who seemed to be heading into town. He paused and greeted her with a friendly “good morrow.”

“And the same to you,” Branna said. “Where are you going?”

“Down to the camp in the meadows. His grace is sending off a message.”

“To Mirryn, I’ll wager.”

“Right you are,” Gerran said with a wry smile. “He’s not going to like it much, but he needs to know we won’t be back as soon as we’d planned.”

“Does it tell him why?”

“It does, and he’s going to be furious, being left out once again.”

“Well, it’s for his own good, I suppose. He’ll be safer because of it.”

“Oh, here, never tell him that!” Gerran said. “He feels dishonorable enough as it is.”

“I’d never tell any fighting man that, fear not.”

“Good.” With a nod her way, Gerran turned and strode out the gates.

Branna watched him go, but she was thinking of Mirryn. All at once she knew that if he rode to this battle, he’d die and leave his father without an heir.
I’d best find Salamander or Dalla,
she thought. They could tell her the origin of her sudden certainty, or so she hoped.

 

Gerran sent two Red Wolf men off with the message, then returned to the dun to look for Calonderiel. Once they’d gotten the wedding out of the way—Gerran considered the festivities a delay and a nuisance—the warbands and servants could finish the preparations for the march north. Even though Ridvar was taking only half of his own men, what with the escorts brought by the two princes and the Red Wolf warband, the army would amount to nearly two hundred men against Honelg’s handful of riders. If it weren’t for the dun walls and the archers, the battle would have been a slaughter. But of course, Honelg did have archers, and good ones at that. Gerran wanted to know how many bowmen the Westfolk had with them, and how skilled they were, to counter this grim reality.

The banadar wasn’t in the great hall. One of the pages had seen him walking in the general direction of the stables. Gerran was heading that way when he came upon Branna and Neb, talking together behind one of the storage sheds—or, more precisely, arguing. Although they kept their voices low, Neb had his arms crossed over his chest, and Branna was waving her hands in the air to emphasize some point she was making. As Gerran walked up, they both fell silent.

“What’s all this?” Gerran said.

“A stupid idea,” Neb said.

“Oh, hold your tongue!” Branna said. “Gerro, I want to ride north with the warband when you go. Someone has to be there to beg Honelg to let Adranna and the other women leave the sieged dun. I’ll need to take care of Adranna and little Trenni once they’re out, too. He wouldn’t dare harm a supplicant kinswoman, not if he wants any of the gods to ever favor him again. Neb says that Dallandra will be there, but Honelg won’t listen to her. She’s one of the Westfolk, and Salamander told me that Alshandra’s people hate them.”

“True spoken,” Neb said, “but—”

Branna ignored him and went on, “With Dalla there, it’s not like I’ll be the only woman in camp.”

Neb shot her a dark look. “I’ll wager you agree with me, Gerro,” Neb said. “This is a scatterbrained scheme if I ever heard one!”

“I don’t, and it’s not,” Gerran said. “Here, Neb, you’re her betrothed, and you’ll be riding with us. The tieryn needs a scribe to write out messages and the like. So she’ll be safe enough, with you and me to look after her.” He glanced at Branna. “I’ll speak with your uncle, if you’d like.”

“I would.” Branna turned to him and grinned. “My thanks, Gerro. My most sincere and grand thanks.”

“Welcome, I’m sure. Huh. I never did like Lord Honelg much. Neb, truly, I think it’s best that—”

“Oh, very well!” Neb’s tone of voice was more frost than graciousness. “As long as I’m riding with her, I suppose I can’t object.”

“You might have told me that,” Branna snapped.

“You never gave me a chance,” Neb said.