The Gold Falcon (58 page)

“His holiness has refused our aid,” Voran said. “His other men have gone back to the temple to fetch a litter.”

“He probably needs to rest more than anything,” Dallandra said. “And to eat more.” She turned and spoke to the two priests. “Your Holiness, you really must have nourishing broths and gruels. See if you can manage a little breast of fowl, chopped fine, too.”

“She’s quite right,” the chirurgeon said. “If you won’t let me examine you, Your Holiness, you could at least take our Westfolk healer’s advice.”

Neither priest responded. Govvin’s attendant glanced at her, then away, but he seemed indifferent rather than resentful. Govvin was so exhausted that Dalla could tell nothing from his aura, which had shrunk around him to a faint gray-green haze. He raised his head and gave her a look of such malice that she stepped back. There was no dweomer in it, just hatred, a pure cold hatred like a sword of ice. She could assume that he had seen the Wildfolk drifting around her and marked her as his attacker.

From the edge of the crowd someone called out, “The litter’s here, Your Holiness.” The mob parted and let four priests through. They carried a litter made of long poles with a blanket attached.

“No more to see here, lads!” the prince called out. “We need to get on the road.”

Murmuring assent, the men began to drift away, heading back to their various encampments. Dallandra turned her Sight upon the prince. His aura glowed strongly and clearly, a faint yellow heavily streaked with red, a typical coloration for warrior lords. Apparently Neb had ended the priest’s attempt at ensorcellment before Govvin had managed to sink his claws in deep. Govvin knew the techniques of ensorcellment, but he lacked power to put into his spell. She shut down the Sight, and as she started back to camp, Prince Voran fell in beside her.

“I wonder why the old man starves himself,” Voran remarked.

“He may just have worms,” Dallandra said. “But I’d guess that he fasts as part of a ritual. Prolonged fasting is supposed to give priests visions of their gods.”

“Ah, I see. I didn’t know that.” He smiled again, but ruefully. “If I’d known the old man had the falling sickness, I’d have minded my words a little more.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t blame yourself, Your Highness. You didn’t know, and besides, I’d say he deserves whatever he gets.”

“I’ll admit to having similar thoughts. Very well, then, and my thanks.”

With a pleasant wave, Voran strode off.
He’s a strong man,
Dallandra thought,
and it’s a blasted good thing, too!
Still, she decided that she’d best keep an eye on him from then on, just in case Govvin’s attempt at dweomer wasn’t as clumsy as it appeared.

The army had finished breaking camp and was assembling in the road when Arzosah finally returned. She swooped over the line of march, then settled into a nearby field. Dallandra and Salamander ran out to join her.

“My apologies for being late,” Arzosah said. “I seem to have overslept. Perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten both cows last night, but I did hate to waste any.”

“I take it they were delicious?” Salamander said.

“They were indeed. Grain fed and nice and fat.” The dragon licked her black lips.

“Grain fed?” Dallandra raised an eyebrow. “They eat well, those priests.”

“Or else they sell the cows for coin,” Salamander said, “but I’m not sure where the market would be. In big Deverry cities like Trev Hael, the wealthier merchants and guildsmen will pay more for better beef, but out here—” He shrugged his shoulders.

“They may barter them outright,” Dallandra said. “There’s a certain kind of man who eats his meat raw.”

“That’s true.” Salamander winced with a little shiver. “But something else has just occurred to me, to wit, taxes for the central temple down in Dun Deverry. Have you ever seen it? They’ve gilded the walls in a pattern of tree branches and oak leaves. The statues of Bel may be wood underneath, but they, too, drip with gold and jewels. The priests? Ah, the priests! Their simple tunics and cloaks are patched together from scraps. It’s just that the scraps are velvets and silks. The sickles they carry—”

“That’s enough,” Dallandra interrupted. “I see your point. Someone has to pay for all of that.”

“Indeed. And, as usual in this world, the coin’s extracted from the hides of those least able to afford it.”

“Which reminds me,” Arzosah said, “I took several turns over the temple on my way to the pasture. They’re up to somewhat, all right. When I flew directly over, I could feel—” She paused, and the black tip of her tongue stuck out of her enormous mouth like a cat’s while she thought the matter through. “I’m not sure what I felt, truly. It was a pulsing sensation, as if the etheric was beating like a heart. But I didn’t see any etheric sigils, nor any traces of astral domes, naught so obvious.”

“What about deformed Wildfolk?” Dallandra said.

“How can anyone possibly tell if Wildfolk are deformed?” Arzosah said. “They’re always ugly.”

“True, but the ones I’m thinking of usually have big fangs and claws, and they’re black as charcoal or shiny like beetles. A few even look like they’ve been flayed.”

“Ych!” Arzosah rolled her eyes in disgust. “I did see some small ugly things scuttling into the temple itself, but I just got a glimpse of them. They might have been dogs. I detest dogs. Too much noise and bone, too little meat.”

“It’s a puzzle, then,” Dallandra said.

“An enigma, amazement, conundrum, and riddle indeed,” Salamander said. “But I doubt me if we can linger here to solve it.”

“True-spoken, alas,” Dallandra said. “I’m more determined than ever to investigate that temple.”

“What?” Salamander said. “If Govvin’s marked you for his enemy, that’s going to be dangerous.”

“It may be, it may not. If Govvin’s the only person with dweomer knowledge up there, it won’t be.”

“And if there’s someone else, his teacher, perhaps?”

“Then it will be, but it needs doing anyway.”

“Well, you can’t do it right now. We’ve got to get back to the army, or they’ll leave without us.”

“I know that,” Dallandra snapped. “Arzosah, if you’ll just fly ahead? I wouldn’t put it past Honelg to lay an ambuscade. He’s most likely desperate enough to try.”

“Now that is a good thought,” Arzosah said. “He might also have sent a second batch of messengers, for all we know, in case the first lot ran into difficulties. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“A thousand thanks!” Dallandra said. “But tonight, when we camp, it would gladden my heart if you’d tell what’s happened to the silver dragon.”

“Would it?” Arzosah looked away. “I doubt that.”

“Here, is he still alive?” Dallandra’s voice was sharp with alarm.

“He is that,” the dragon said. “I’ll tell you more later. Perhaps.”

“But—”

Arzosah began to turn around, moving with her usual slow waddle, but Salamander still had to jump back to avoid her tail as it swung after her. She put on a bit of speed, reached the open field, then spread her wings, bunched her muscles, and sprang into the air. No one spoke until she’d flown away out of sight, heading north in the direction of Honelg’s dun.

“May her scales turn greasy and itch,” Salamander muttered. “Dalla, the way she keeps putting you off—it’s truly worrisome.”

“It is, indeed.” Dallandra said. “But she’ll tell us what she wants to tell us and when she wants to, not a moment before.”

Around noon Gwerbret Ridvar’s army rode up to Honelg’s village. Gerran wasn’t in the least surprised to find it deserted except for a handful of old women and young children. Dressed mostly in faded black, the women stood around the village well, with the children clinging to their skirts, and watched the army file in. No one either cheered or jeered, they neither scowled nor smiled, merely watched with wary eyes. They had, no doubt, seen plenty of trouble in their lives and seemed utterly unsurprised to see more.

The army stopped in a swirl of dust and confusion out in the road, but Gwerbret Ridvar rode on toward the women. Prince Voran urged his horse forward and blocked his way.

“This could be some sort of trap,” the prince said.

“It could, truly, Your Highness.” Ridvar paused, looking the women over. “But I doubt it.”

Ridvar stopped his horse a few feet from the crowd at the well. He leaned over his horse’s neck to speak.

“None of you nor your homes will be harmed,” he said. “Where are the others? Up in the dun for the siege?”

The women exchanged glances and kept silence.

“We’ll find out soon enough. Did they leave you any food?”

A stoop-backed woman with gray hair and only a few teeth shuffled forward to answer. “They did, Your Grace, enough for the children.”

“But not for the rest of you?” Ridvar turned in his saddle and beckoned to his captain. “When we make camp, send back supplies.”

“Done, Your Grace.” The captain raised a hand in salute.

The women sighed, moved a few steps here and there, and turned to look at one another, in a rustle of clothing like wind in dry branches.

“What about the younger women?” Prince Voran called out. “I swear to you that no man here will harm them. If any do, they’ll answer to me.”

The old women exchanged more glances. The crone speaking for them seemed to be studying the blazons on the prince’s shirt and the various banners and pennants among the troops.

“Very well, Your Highness,” she said at length. “We’ll tell them they can come back to the village.”

“Do that.” The prince glanced at Ridvar. “Let’s ride on. I take it that we’re not far now from the traitor’s dun.”

“So the gerthddyn said.” Ridvar turned in his saddle and with a sweep of his arm, sent his men forward.

With their goal so close, the princes and the gwerbret led their army at a trot and let the clumsy carts and servants follow as best they might. In but a little while they rounded a curve in the road and saw the dun, squat and ugly in the midst of its defenses and walls.
Like a scab on top of a pusboil
, Gerran thought. He could see that the gates were shut. Archers, half-concealed behind the crenels, lined the top of the wall.

With shouts and a wave of his arm, Ridvar disposed his men and his allies. The warbands spread out, some riding left, some right, and surrounded the hill, but they took care to stay out of arrow reach. Since his daughter’s safety was at stake, Tieryn Cadryc and his men were given the position next to the gwerbret’s own, where they had a good view of the gates. At Ridvar’s call, Indar the herald rode up to his lord’s side. He carried a staff wound with variously colored ribands, the mark of his office, and a silver horn. When he blew three long notes, a horn answered him from inside the dun.

“At least the bastard’s willing to parley,” Cadryc muttered to Gerran. “That’s somewhat to the good.”

“It is, Your Grace.” Gerran rose in his stirrups for a better look. “They’re not opening the gates, though. Oh, wait! They’ve got a side portal.”

Carrying a beribboned staff of his own, a herald slipped through the narrow door and began walking down through the maze of walls and ditches. Indar handed his staff to the gwerbret, then dismounted and took the staff back.

“I’d best go to meet him, Your Grace,” Indar said. “I’ve got the terms of surrender well up in my mind, not that it will matter, I suppose.”

“Unfortunately, you’re most likely right,” Ridvar said. “Well, let’s give him his chance to turn them down.”

Indar trudged off, staff held high to ensure that the archers on the walls saw it. The elaborate earthworks seemed to swallow both heralds and hide them from sight. There was nothing for the army to do but wait and try to soothe their restless horses as the parley dragged on.

Finally, just as everyone’s patience was running out, Indar returned. He bowed to prince and gwerbret both.

“Lord Honelg refuses our terms,” Indar said. “He asks you to quit his lands. From what his herald told me, that’s the only answer he’ll give—quit his lands, and then he’ll consider a true parley.”

Ridvar turned red in the face and muttered a few foul oaths.

“I expected naught better, somehow,” Voran said. “What about Honelg’s womenfolk?”

“I pled for mercy upon them with all the feeling I could muster,” Indar said. “I followed the gerthddyn’s instructions, too, pointing out that womenfolk were especially treasured by his goddess, and that his little daughter represented a future hope for Alshandra’s fame and glory, should she live to spread the tidings about her goddess. The herald listened most carefully. There were even tears in his eyes at one point. He said that he’d present my message to his lord with great care. So, there it stands.” Indar shook his head with a sigh. “We can only hope that Honelg will listen.”

 

If Honelg did listen to his herald, there was no sign of it that afternoon and evening. Salamander kept a watch at the edge of the Westfolk camp. With his normal sight, he could see that men on guard stood behind the crenella tion at the top of the dun wall. Once a man who seemed to be Honelg himself appeared, walking restlessly round the battlements. Now and then Salamander would scry, but inside the walls he saw only things that he and the lords already knew.