The Gold Falcon (72 page)

“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.

“Tell me, Lord Gerran,” she said, “why you’re sitting here and not at one of the honor tables.”

Gerran gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it feels more like home here.” He thought for a moment longer. “And I’m still your uncle’s captain.”

“True-spoken, that. I was wondering if you’d started thinking like a noble lord yet. Apparently not.”

“And why were you wondering?”

“Because of Lady Solla.”

His smile disappeared into a scowl.

“None of my affair, is it?” Branna said.

“It’s not.”

“But it is, because she’s my friend, and you’ll be staying in our dun till Uncle Cadryc finds another captain and those letters patent come back from Dun Deverry.”

“She can’t possibly want to marry me.”

“Oh, don’t be an ass, Gerro!” Branna had had quite enough of polite sparring. “Of course she does, and I’ll wager you cursed well know it. You’re not that doltish.”

Gerran opened his mouth and shut it several times.

“Well?” Branna said.

“Here, I’ll tell you the truth if you promise not to tell her. Or anyone, not even Neb.”

He grinned so smugly at his proposed bargain that Branna felt like swearing at him. Honor and curiosity wrestled in her mind. Curiosity won.

“Oh, very well, I promise.”

“I do want to marry her.” Gerran lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “But if I ask her, and she agrees, what if I’m killed when we bring down Zakh Gral? She’ll be betrothed to a dead man, a widow in everyone’s eyes, and who’s going to marry her then?”

Branna was so surprised at this decency that for a long moment she could find no words to respond. Gerran had a long swallow of ale and resumed staring at the ashy hearth.

“I do see,” Branna said at last. “And truly, you’re right. If you told Solla that, she’d say it wouldn’t matter to her, and you’d probably end up announcing your betrothal—but it does matter. I shan’t tell a soul. I’ll just pray with all my heart that you ride home again from Zakh Gral.”

That night, the last before the Red Wolf left Cengarn, the air inside the broch turned so humid and hot that Branna couldn’t sleep. She slipped out of bed without waking Neb, threw on the first dress she found, and went barefoot up to the roof for the fresher air. A cool wind frayed a few stray clouds and sent them scudding off toward the east. The last-quarter moon seemed to sail with them, glimmering free, then disappearing again into cloud.