The Gold Falcon

by Katharine Kerr

  “Where are you?” Dalla thought to him. “I’ve never felt your mind so exhausted! Where’s your shirt?”

  “In Zakh Gral, where it’s become a holy relic,” Salamander thought back. “So are my horses and all my gear, though I don’t suppose those will end up on the altar. My manly chest, however, has escaped with me, although little black flies, alas, are trying to bite it even as we speak.”

  “Will you stop babbling like that?”

  “I’ll do my best. As you’ve doubtless guessed, I took bird-form and did get clean away, and I remembered to bring along some evidence that the place exists. Alas, I couldn’t carry everything, which means I’m foodless as well as shirtless. And they kept my table dagger, blankets, horses—the lot. So here I am, alive but plunged into poverty and despair. I have no idea how far from you I am, but I doubt if I can fly again.”

  “I doubt if you should. Here, are you having those odd broken visions again?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Here, let me see.” He looked around and realized that the trees, the grass, even the cold gray rocks tumbled along the stream bank were refusing to hold steady. They pulsed around the edges, they seemed to glow from within—he shook his head hard. “Yes, the world is beating like a heart.”

  “I was afraid of that. I can feel the strains in your mind. One more difficult working, and your old madness could return.”

  “But madness begins to sound better than being eaten alive by gnats, flies, wild wolves, bears—”

  “Ebañy, stop it! You’re one of the People. You know how to survive in wild places. Besides, you won’t have to walk the whole way south. I’m coming to fetch you.”

  Salamander felt a sudden burst of hope which, since he was exhausted, broke the vision beyond his power to call it back. He waded out to the shallows to drink the clean water there, then plastered his upper body with mud to keep off biting flies. By the time he finished, the pulsing world seemed to rotate around him; he barely had the strength to crawl back under the willow’s lacy overhang before he fell asleep.

  “Canyoureally reach Ebañy this way?”Valandario said. “When Evandar crossed the River of Life, didn’t all the hidden roads close?”

  “Some of the mother roads, yes,” Dallandra said. “Those are the ones that led between different worlds. But the short paths, the ones between places inside our world, they still work. I think they existed long before Evandar came here. They’re harder to find now, though.”

  “They must have drawn their life from the mother roads.”

  “They did, or, come to think of it, they must still do so. There has to be at least one mother road that’s still open. Otherwise all the daughter roads would be gone.”

  “They might well disappear, someday. I just hope you can get back again.”

  “So do I.” Dalla paused for a sharp laugh. “But I think the roads will last long enough for that. Ebañy’s not all that far away. Five or six days’ ride, I’d say.”

  “The fort’s that close? By the Black Sun herself! Those Horsekin—bold as stoats and twice as stinky!”

  “Well, Ebañy flew a good ways south before he came to earth. But if we’re not back in two days, send Cal and his men north after us.”

  Dallandra borrowed a shirt for Salamander from his father, then put it and some food into a sack. She took Valandario along when she left the camp and headed for a nearby stream that ran through the tall grass out by the horse herd. Dallandra was looking for the subtle signs that mark the beginning of an etheric road. Since the combined auras of the horses and the men guarding them blurred the boundaries of the planes, she led Valandario along for a good mile before she finally found what she was looking for. The stream formed a pool at the bottom of a slight drop, and a tangle of hazel withes had sprung up around it. She could see the glimmer of etheric force marking a boundary.

  “There!” Dallandra pointed. “On this side just before you reach the hazels. See it?”

  “No,” Valandario said, then sighed. “I just don’t have your gifts.”

  “Well, I can’t scry the future like you can.”

  “True. Now, be careful. I’ll be watching for you both.”

  Dallandra stepped into the quivering lozenge of etheric force. For a brief moment elemental energy, an etheric outpouring from the running stream beyond, threatened to trap her. She felt it grab her with invisible hands, but in a quick slither she broke free and found herself standing on a low outcrop of rock, a peculiar rock as much blue as gray, that shimmered under her feet. She had found a road.

  For a moment she paused to make a detailed image of Salamander in her mind. Since he had dweomer himself, the image came easily, showing him mud-encrusted and asleep under a willow tree. He seemed to be lying only a few yards away, but as she walked toward him the image receded, leading her onward. After what seemed a brief interval, the image held steady, then strengthened, turning three-dimensional as she stepped down off the etheric road onto the physical riverbank. In the sky sunset flamed. Traveling the roads meant stepping out of Time, which as usual had run far faster on the physical plane than on the network of astral roads.

  Salamander woke with a start and sat up, stretching, grinning at her. “Ye gods!” he said. “You can’t have flown all this way so fast.”

  “I didn’t, no,” Dalla said. “I took the secret paths, and we’ll have to go back the same way. I brought some food.”

  “May the Star Goddesses bless you! I’m starved.”

  Yet, being Salamander, he washed in the river and put on the clean shirt before he ate.

  Dallandra decided to wait for the moon to finish rising before they attempted the return journey. Moonrise sends waves of energy ahead of it, making etheric journeys even more dangerous than they normally are. While they sat by the dark-rushing water, Salamander told her about his travels in more detail, including the position of the fort. He scried, as well, and was able to report that the river by which they sat was indeed the same one that led eventually to Zakh Gral.

  “That name, by the way,” Dalla said, “means the red fort in their language.”

  “And red correlates to iron, strength, and manly virtue,” Salamander said, “or so the novice lore I was learning has it.”

  “It’s an odd name for that temple, then, isn’t it? One that exists to spread the truth about a new goddess.”

  “Indeed. I suspect that Lakanza and her holy women are being cozened by the rakzanir on their so-called holy council. This business of Vandar’s spawn—how convenient for men who desperately need pasture for their horses!”

  “I had the same sour thought.”

  “And a slender excuse for killing looks fat to the Horsekin, just as it does to the Roundear lords.” He paused, considering something. “Yet their peoples prosper, and ours dwindle. Why is that?”

  “There’s not enough of us for breeding stock. If the day comes when the Roundears and Horsekin stop dropping litters, they might become a lot more peaceful.”

  “Let us pray for that day, then. But you know, I had a thought, when I was riding west with Rocca.”

  “Just one?” Dalla grinned at him.

  Salamander ignored the interruption. “And that was, we know that some refugees reached the Southern Isles. Could there be others who fled west? If so, they doubtless think themselves the only, lonely survivors, much as both we and the island refugees did.”

  “You know, that’s a very interesting question.”

  “Some of the younger men might be tempted into going to find the answer, especially if we can get a sea captain from the islands interested in sailing west.”

  “You’re quite right. Not this summer, though.”

  “Alas, not this summer. We have a rather large unpleasantness to deal with first.”

  “Unpleasantness. I like how you put that.” Dallandra stood up, gazing off to the east, where the moon hung solidly above the dark horizon. “Well, let’s get back. The sooner we get on the way to Cengarn the better, and the cam
p will be worrying about us.”

  “About you, anyway.” Salamander scrambled up to join her. “Let me put the evidence I brought into that sack of yours. The gwerbret’s going to have to admit that this plate, at least, isn’t something you can buy in the marketplace.”

  “Let’s hope so. Now—stick close to me. In fact, let me take your hand. This way of traveling can be tricky, so don’t let your mind wander. Think of Valandario. She’s waiting for us, and she’ll be my focus. Build up an image of her.”

  “Very well, O princess of powers perilous. I just hope my humble skills will be sufficient to—”

  “Stop babbling and concentrate!”

  Despite his fears, Dallandra found the road back easily enough, and he managed to walk it with her. After what seemed like a bare mile’s journey, they stepped down from the shimmering blue rocks to find themselves in sight of the elven camp, just waking in the dawn of a new day. As they hurried toward the tents, the horse guards spotted them and shouted a greeting. Others came running from the camp, with Zandro in the lead. He rushed up to his father and threw his arms around him so forcefully that he nearly knocked Salamander over.

  “Easy, lad!” Salamander said, smiling. “Your poor old Da’s come up a bit lame.”

  Zandro bared his teeth in a smile and begin sniffing Salamander like a dog, his nose working, his eyes distant as he moved up his father’s arm to his shoulder and hair.

  “And what is all this?” Salamander said. “What do you smell there?”

  Zandro considered the question for a moment. “Home,” he said finally. It was the first time Zandro had ever answered a question with a clear meaningful word.

  “Good lad!” Salamander said. “Do you mean I’m home now?”

  Zandro shook his head. “Blue home,” he said.

  “He means the etheric, I think,” Dallandra joined in. “Odd. I never thought of it having a scent before.”

  “No more did I,” Salamander said. “But he’s the one who’d know.”

  By then Dallandra felt too drained from the dweomerworking to worry about Zandro or anyone else, for that matter. She left Salamander to tell his tale to whomever wanted to hear it and went to her tent, where she flopped down on her blankets and fell asleep with barely a moment’s thought.

  Dallandra woke in midafternoon to find a council of war in progress. Three members of the alar had taken the children, both normal and changeling, away to play in a meadow out of earshot, but everyone else had gathered in front of Dar’s tent. As she walked up, she noticed that Salamander was still speaking, but after a few more sentences he finished, nodded toward the prince, and sat down beside Devaberiel. Those assembled began talking among themselves, in whispers at first, then louder, until they sounded like the roar of a high tide on a graveled beach. Calonderiel got up and raised his arms for silence. After a brief flurry of talk, the assembly quieted to let the banadar speak.

  “So now you all know what Ebañy told us earlier.” Cal defined this “us” with a sweep of his arm, taking in Dar, Meranaldar, Devaberiel, and Maelaber. “Here’s what we decided. I’ll choose a squad of archers, and we’ll take Dallandra with us, too, to guard the prince on his ride to Cengarn. Ebañy will come along, of course. As I understand it, some of the Deverry lords along the border will support us when we put this matter before the gwerbret. We’re hoping he’ll send messages to the high king.”

  “He’s practically promised to do that,” Salamander put in. “Tieryn Cadryc will make sure he holds to the promise.”

  “Good,” Cal went on. “We’ve got to destroy that fort, no matter what it costs us. If our Deverry allies desert us, we’ll have to call for a general muster of the People.”

  The assembly agreed, but with a long sigh of regret. Heads nodded yes, but no one cheered, no one leaped to their feet to shout their agreement. Here and there an individual wiped away tears from his or her eyes and whispered the names of friends or family killed in previous battles with Horsekin.

  “The rest of you, the combined alarli, will head out to the usual grazing grounds,” Calonderiel said. “But be very wary of riding too far west. Princess Carra will lead you, and Valandario will travel with her. Our dweomermasters can pass news back and forth, so we’ll tell you what we learn when we learn it, if anything.”

  Again came the nods, the sighs of agreement. The assembly began to break up. Some of the People stood and immediately walked away; in twos and threes others lingered, talking among themselves or coming forward to speak with the prince or Calonderiel. By then Salamander had dark circles under his eyes; he let his father and his son lead him off to their tent. Dallandra waited until the crowd had completely dispersed, then joined Cal, Dar, and Meranaldar.

  “I’ll send off messengers to Cengarn tomorrow,” Dar said. “They need to know that I’ll be coming with my retinue.”

  “Retinue?” Cal wrinkled his nose, then turned his attention to Dallandra. “I’m assuming you’re willing to come with us.”

  “Of course.” Dalla sat down opposite him. “It’s a sad enough errand.”

  “Yes, it is. You might have to convince young Ridvar about the dweomer. The cursed Roundears never want to believe in it.”

  “What?” Dar said. “It was dweomer that saved Cengarn in the Horsekin War. Everyone knows that story.”

  “They may know about it,” Dallandra said, “but they don’t want to know, and so they work at forgetting it.”

  “I don’t understand why—”

  “She’s right.” Cal interrupted the prince. “They don’t want to hear about it, the Roundear lords. You want to know why? Because they take themselves and their petty little feuds so seriously, that’s why. They think every wretched thing they do is of the greatest importance to the kingdom and the gods, and they like it that way. Tell them how big the world really is, all those other creatures and other planes and all of it, and they’re forced to see how small and crude and miserable they are. Their king’s the worst of the lot. Remember that if you ever meet him.”

  Meranaldar gasped and rose to a kneel, glancing back and forth between prince and banadar as if he expected a fight to break out. Calonderiel got to his feet and turned his attention to the scribe.

  “Oh, stop snorting and rolling your eyes, you damp-arse bastard!” Cal said. “You’re a bad influence, I swear it, always mincing around and bowing and swelling Dar’s head for him with your ‘my prince this’ and ‘my prince that.’ ”

  “Oh, indeed?” Meranaldar rose to face him. “Well, there happen to be proper ways of doing things, not that you would know. The ancient ways of royalty are still valid.”

  “Oh, by the silver shit of the Star Gods! Ancient ways, my arse! Look at us, a pack of shepherds and horse wranglers!”

  “And likely to remain so with churls and bumpkins like you in command.”

  Calonderiel took a step forward. Meranaldar took one backward.

  “You know something?” Cal said. “If you don’t hold your tongue, I’m going to beat some sense into you.”

  Meranaldar turned pale and sat back down. Dallandra thought of intervening, but there was justice in what Calonderiel was saying. Besides, she had to admit that Cal when angry displayed a pure kind of energy, a strong but fine-drawn maleness that she liked watching. The royal object of Cal’s diatribe was watching the banadar with eyes that showed not the slightest emotion. Cal turned his head and stared right at the prince. For a moment the stalemate held; then Dar suddenly laughed.

  “You’re right,” Dar said. “Not about beating my scribe, I mean, but about the rest of it. All of the rest of it—the things you said aloud, and the meaning just under your words.”

  “Good,” Cal said. “I’m glad to hear it.” He paused for effect, then bowed with an over-graceful sweep of his hand. “My prince.”

  Everyone burst out laughing, except Meranaldar, who did manage to force out a watery smile. He was close to tears, Dallandra suspected, and later, when they had a chance at a privat
e word, Meranaldar admitted as much.

  “I’m honestly afraid,” the scribe said, “that one of these days the banadar is going to turn on me and slit my throat before anyone can stop him. If anyone even wants to stop him, that is.”

  “Oh, come now!” Dalla said. “He’s not going to do that, and trust me, if he should lose his mind and try, a great many people will make sure he doesn’t hurt you.”

  “That makes me feel a bit better.” Meranaldar pulled an ink-stained rag from the waistband of his leggings and wiped cold sweat from his face. “I suppose. He must hate me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. He hates what you represent, the old ways, and the return of the refugees who believe in those ways. The Westlands are changing—we have to change if we’re going to survive—and Cal loves the way things have been.”

  Meranaldar considered this for a long moment, then nodded his agreement. “Yes, I can see that,” he said. “There are those back in the Southern Isles who hate the way things are changing, too. The high council used to rule a tidy little world where everyone knew their place and kept to it. Now anyone who can get passage on a ship can find themselves an entirely new place, here in the grasslands.”

  “I take it that not everyone’s perfectly contented with life in the islands.”

  “I only wish.” Meranaldar smiled briefly. “It’s the young people, of course, who are discontented, and we do have some young people, though not enough. The volunteers who settled Mandra, for instance, and laid out its farms. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, how cheerful they are about all the hard work they do, keeping their town alive.”

  “Yes, I have. I was surprised, I’ll admit it.”

  “So was I, but I understand them. In the islands we’ve devoted ourselves to honoring the past. You probably can’t imagine how completely we live for the past.”

  “Young people would rather have a future.”

  “Precisely, which is why our banadar can’t keep your future from arriving, one fine day. And you know, if we ever return to the ruins of the cities, everything will change again—no, that’s too weak a word. Our lives will be utterly recast, Dalla, whether we’re Westfolk or Islanders. Both kinds of life will be transformed utterly, and none of us can tell how that will be, I’ll wager, not even Valandario with her gem-dweomer.”