The Gold Falcon

by Katharine Kerr

  “Welcome, Your Highness,” Ridvar said, “to my humble dun.”

  “My thanks, Your Grace, though humble’s not a word I’d use of Dun Cengarn.” Smiling, Daralanteriel turned and gestured at the archer who was leading the golden gelding. “I’ve brought you a small token to congratulate you upon your wedding. I only wish it could be finer.”

  “Oh, he’s glorious!” Ridvar forgot courtesy and rank both. He strode over to the gelding, who tossed his head in a ripple of silvery mane as if to greet him. “My thanks! A thousand thanks!”

  Salamander glanced at Dallandra, mouthed a few words, then stepped into the crowd gathering around the elven party and slipped away. He was looking for Branna and Neb, but when he saw Lord Oth standing alone in the doorway of a side building, he hurried over. “And a good morrow to you, gerthddyn,” Oth said. “I don’t suppose you have any news for me.”

  “About the Horsekin, my lord? I’m afraid I do, and it’s the worst news in the world. I found the fortress they’re building off to the west.”

  Oth swore under his breath.

  “Indeed,” Salamander went on. “I need your advice. When should I broach the topic? I don’t want to spoil the festivities, you see, and—”

  “The festivities may have to wait,” Oth interrupted with a curt wave of his hand. “Do you have proof?”

  “I do indeed, my lord. A plate with Horsekin writing, a bit of building stone, and an odd little packet of tokens dedicated to the false goddess Alshandra.” Salamander pointed at Daralanteriel and the rest of the elven party. “The prince found it convincing.”

  “Good. I happen to believe you myself, mind. The gwerbret may or may not, but he knows that Daralanteriel and your cadvridoc would never lie to him.” Oth paused, chewing on the ends of his mustaches. “How to break the news, I wonder . . . well, this will require some thought.”

  “I truly hate to spoil the wedding. His poor betrothed!”

  “Huh! She’s marrying Ridvar out of duty to her clan. I doubt if her happiness is at stake. Besides, she’s the daughter of a gwerbret, and she understands the ways of these things.” Again Oth paused, thinking. “Here, say naught until I bring you forward, but soonest will be best.”

  Eventually the gwerbret allowed a groom to lead his new horse away. Unfortunately, several lads, Clae among them, had just started to lead other horses out of the stables, and for a few moments men, Westfolk, mounts, and servants all milled around in a hopeless mob. Finally Ridvar took charge and began yelling orders. A path cleared between the guests and the great hall. Salamander caught Dallandra’s attention and waved her over.

  “Lord Oth says we should wait with our news till he summons us,” Salamander said. “Could you tell the prince?”

  “Certainly,” Dalla said. “I’d like to meet Neb and Branna as soon as possible, remember.”

  “Of course. I’m just off to look for them.”

  Branna was sitting at a table in the great hall with Galla and Lady Solla when she saw Salamander, standing just inside the door, peering this way and that at the assembled guests. As well as the guests and the members of their various escorts, the great hall swarmed with servants, hurrying this way and that as they cleared the remnants of the noon meal away. Branna shoved back her chair and stood, waving to attract Salamander’s attention. At last he saw her and hurried over, dodging around a manservant who was carrying an armload of table linens for the table of honor, the only table that had been graced with cloths.

  “There you are!” Salamander said. “Good morrow, fair ladies.” He bowed to Solla and Galla, then made an extravagant parody of a bow to Branna.

  “And a good morrow to you, too, gerthddyn,” Branna said. “It gladdens my heart to see you again.”

  “And mine to see you. Is Neb here somewhere?”

  “My betrothed?” Branna said. “He just went up to our chamber for a moment.”

  “Well, my congratulations!” Salamander glanced at Galla. “I take it you approve of the marriage.”

  “Very much so,” Galla said, “and more to the point, so did her father. Well, with you here, we shall have some pleasant tales of an evening, I hope.”

  “As pleasant as I can make them, my lady, though alas, alack, and welladay, I bring some very bad news.”

  “About the Horsekin?” Branna said.

  Solla caught her breath with a little gasp. Two serving lasses who were walking past stopped, stepping forward as if to see if she needed their help, but she waved them on.

  “Just that.” Salamander’s smile disappeared. “And about a certain noble lord who appears to be caught up in treacherous doings.”

  Behind him the manservant with the table linens paused in his work to listen. You can hardly blame him for being curious, Branna thought. Still, she caught Salamander’s glance and made a slight movement of one hand to signal that someone was behind him. The manservant hurried off.

  “But I fear me this isn’t the place or the time to say more.” Salamander picked up her hint. “I’ve consulted with Lord Oth.”

  “Splendid!” Galla said. “I suggest you follow his lead in this.”

  “Indeed,” Solla put in. “He’s the only person my brother will listen to.”

  “Then I shall put my trust in him, my ladies. Ah—here comes our Neb now.” Salamander was looking past Branna. “Neb! Well met, indeed! Congratulations on your betrothal!”

  On a tide of chatter Salamander swept Neb and Branna up and floated them away from the ladies at the table. The rest of the Westfolk were just coming in the door, escorted by the gwerbret himself. Branna, Neb, and Salamander stepped back out of the way and let the royal party pass on to the gwerbret’s own table, where Prince Voran sat waiting to receive his equal in rank. Prince Daralanteriel looked much more like a prince should, Branna decided—amazingly handsome, easily the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, despite his long ears and strange violet eyes. He looks familiar. The thought came to her like a blast of winter wind, chilling her blood. I know him.

  Lord Oth trailed behind the gwerbret; he gave Salamander a brief but pointed wave as they passed. Behind him walked an elven woman with long ash-blonde hair and gray eyes. When Salamander gestured her way, she left the gwerbret’s little group and came over to join them.

  “Excellent,” Salamander said. “Branna, Neb, this is Dallandra, one of the prince’s most trusted servitors.”

  Dallandra smiled pleasantly and murmured a “good morrow,” but Branna felt that the elven woman’s gray eyes were like a pair of daggers, cutting into her soul. Servitor? Branna thought. I’d wager she serves him with dweomer. Aloud, she said, “It gladdens my heart to meet you.”

  “My thanks, Lady Branna,” Dallandra said. “And a good morrow to you, Goodman Neb.”

  Neb smiled and nodded to acknowledge the greeting. It was all perfectly ordinary, perfectly courteous, but Branna suddenly felt as if words were burning in her mouth, demanding to be spat out.

  “Dallandra, I know you, don’t I?” Branna said. “Or I should say, I did know you when—well, once. I mean, before.”

  “Ye gods!” Dallandra took a step back in sheer surprise. “You did, indeed.”

  “And you.” Branna turned to Salamander. “I just didn’t recognize you at first.”

  For a moment Salamander couldn’t speak—a rare enough thing on its own, Branna thought. Chattering elf? Of course, he’s a half-breed! She could also remember having been furious with him, so many long years before, though the reason why had vanished from her mind. Finally he cleared his throat, then glanced nervously at the crowd around them.

  “I think we need to talk about such things at a greater length,” Salamander said. “And where it’s quieter, too.”

  “True spoken,” Neb said. “The only private place I can think of is our chamber. It’s a bit short on chairs, unfortunately.”

  To Branna, Neb’s voice seemed to ring with new authority. He remembers too, she thought. What’s happening to us? She felt as i
f she stood in some high place just before a storm, when the lightning gleams at a far distance, and the air crackles with alien energy, tempting and dangerous together. I could learn to take that power for my own, Branna thought. And so could Neb.

  “The chamber will do,” Dallandra said briskly. “I can barely hear myself think with all these people in here, anyway. I—Wait. Is that Lord Oth now? That gray-haired fellow on his way here.”

  It was indeed Oth, who hurried over to Salamander and laid a hand on his shoulder. “The gwerbret will grant you an audience right now,” the chamberlain said. “And Prince Voran is also much interested in your news. I’ve sent a servant to ask Prince Daralanteriel to join us.”

  “Splendid!” Salamander said. “You’ll forgive me, Lady Branna?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have to go fetch my evidence.” Salamander turned to Oth. “Shall I bring Prince Dar’s cadvridoc back with me?”

  “Please do. I wanted to include all of our border lords. They all have a stake in this, needless to say, but his grace refused. He wants a private hearing first, but of course, he can’t say the princes nay.”

  Without another word Oth and Salamander hurried off. Dallandra watched Salamander until he left the great hall at a run, then turned back to Branna.

  “We can talk later,” Dallandra said. “I think we’d best stay here for the nonce.”

  “True-spoken,” Neb said. “He’s found that fort, hasn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid he has.”

  “Which means there’s going to be a war.”

  “I don’t see how we can avoid it.” Dallandra turned, glancing around at the various tables. A good many people were staring at her.

  Neb seemed to have noticed the onlookers. “Let’s join Galla and Solla,” he said. “I fear me I’m being rude to them.”

  “By all means,” Branna said. “My apologies, Dallandra! You must be tired from your journey. I’m forgetting all my courtesy.” She paused for a smile. “Come have somewhat to drink and refresh yourself.”

  As they walked back to the table, Branna was thinking how glad she was that Neb was a scribe and not a fighting man. I’m so glad I chose him over Gerran, she thought. But then, I did the choosing a very long time ago.

  Salamander had needed to hold the attention of many audiences in his life, but none quite so important as the group that assembled in Ridvar’s chamber of justice for want of privacy in the great hall. Sunlight streamed into the room in long shafts from the arrow-slits of windows, leaving the rest of the half-circle of a room in shadows. Two menservants carried in chairs, then bowed to the gwerbret.

  “Nothing more,” Ridvar said. “Wait—one of you, stand outside the door and make sure that no one disturbs us.”

  “I will, Your Grace,” a brown-haired fellow said.

  The servants bowed themselves out and shut the heavy door firmly behind them. Gwerbret Ridvar took his usual carved chair behind a solid oak table. Behind him a banner of Cengarn hung from a ceiling beam; its cloth-of-gold sun sparkled in a shaft of real sunlight. Lord Blethry hurried forward and placed a chair at the gwerbret’s left hand for Prince Voran; Prince Daralanteriel took the one to his right. Meranaldar and Neb sat on the floor nearby, each with a set of waxed tablets in his lap and a stylus at the ready for notes. Calonderiel, Oth, and Blethry leaned against the wall. Clutching his small sack of evidence, Salamander stood before the gwerbret and the princes.

  “Very well, gerthddyn,” Ridvar said. “Tell us your tale.”

  “I shall be honored to do so, Your Grace,” Salamander said, “and in some detail, because the matter’s truly grave. The Horsekin are building a dun off to the west of your lands, and it’s going to be huge.”

  For a moment no one moved or spoke. Even though noises filtered in from the corridor outside—laughter as guests went by, the chatter of servants—the chamber seemed suddenly isolated, as if it existed in a different world than the rest of the dun. Then Prince Voran swore under his breath, and Ridvar nodded his way. “Indeed,” Ridvar said. “Go on, gerthddyn. I take it you’ve brought us proof.”

  “I have, Your Grace.” Salamander reached into the sack and pulled out the metal plate. “Note the writing on the rim, if you’d be so kind.” He set the plate down on the table in front of Ridvar and pulled out the chunk of worked stone. “This came from the fortress as well. You’ll notice how different it is from the building stone quarried around here.”

  Ridvar picked up the plate, glanced at it, then passed it to Voran. In his sack Salamander still had the arrow token Rocca had given him, but as he watched the lords passing round the plate and stone, cursing softly at them, he felt suddenly reluctant to bring the token out. He was already betraying Rocca; he hated the thought of defiling her little parable of the holy arrows as well. Fortunately, the noble-born found the plate and stone proof enough. When the plate returned to him, Ridvar held it up.

  “Horsekin work, no doubt about that.” Ridvar set the plate down again. “How did you find this dun?”

  “By a bit of luck, Your Grace,” Salamander said. “The gods must favor you highly, because I found a traitor among your vassals as well.”

  “Honelg!” Lord Blethry snapped out the name, then covered embarrassment with a cough. “Well, er, I mean—”

  “I see you’ve had your suspicions, my lord.” Salamander allowed himself a wry smile. “And you were quite right. Allow me to tell you how I found him and the dun both.”

  Salamander had put some thought into the telling of his story. He managed to touch the important points quickly while barely mentioning Rocca at all. She became only “the priestess I followed to the fortress.” The noble-born had little interest in priestesses, anyway; they wanted to hear military details—the fort’s size and distance, an estimate of how big the garrison there would be, how it might be provisioned, and the like. Since Salamander could supply plenty of hard information, he also managed to gloss over his means of escape and the journey back to the Westfolk camp.

  “Very well,” the gwerbret said at last. “We’re going to have to move quickly, before they turn more of their wooden walls into stone ones.”

  “Just so, and, worst thing of all, it’s in a very defensible position, Your Grace,” Salamander said. “It’s on top of a cliff, overlooking a river gorge.”

  “On top of a cliff?” Ridvar paused for a grin. “We just happen to have an alliance with some people who can bring it right down again.”

  “But, Your Grace, do you truly think they’ll join us?” Lord Oth said. “The Mountain Folk keep to themselves.”

  Calonderiel laughed, just a cold mutter under his breath, but everyone in the council turned to look at him.

  “It’s been forty years or so since this happened,” Calonderiel said, “but a party of Horsekin once attacked some farming settlements that belonged to the Mountain Folk. They killed every man there, and in one of the most gruesome ways I’ve ever heard of. Forty years, good councillor, but I’d wager my bow and quiver that they still remember the names of every single dead man.”

  Salamander felt as if a cold wind had swept through the council along with the banadar’s words. He shuddered beyond his control, but young Ridvar laughed as coldly as Calonderiel.

  “You’d win that wager easily,” the gwerbret said. “Very well.” He gestured at Lord Blethry. “My Lord Equerry, get messengers on their way to Lin Serr. Better yet, go with them. We don’t want the Mountain Folk to feel slighted because I’ve sent only common-born riders.”

  “Just so, Your Grace,” Blethry said. “I’ll do so gladly.”

  “And give my regards to your kin on your way there.” Ridvar smiled, as if he’d just realized he’d been brusque with his servitor. “As for my vassals,” he turned serious again, “we’ll wait till we’ve heard from Dun Deverry to begin the muster.”

  “You can count on my archers, Your Grace,” Calonderiel said. “I can easily raise five hundred of them.”

  “And swo
rdsmen,” Prince Daralanteriel put in. “Fewer of those, but all good men.”

  “You have my sincere thanks, Your Highness, and so do you, banadar,” Ridvar said. “I also have hopes that my new wife’s father will aid us.”

  “No doubt he will,” Prince Voran said. “Ultimately this matter concerns every lord in the western provinces. I’ll send messengers off to our king tomorrow. They have a fair bit farther to travel than yours will, so they’d best leave straightaway. I think I may safely say that his highness will lend his support. And of course, my men and I will accompany you when you ride west.”

  “That’s most generous, my prince,” Ridvar said, but his voice turned tense. “My humble thanks.”

  “More than generous, Your Grace,” Oth broke in, “princely, indeed!” He turned toward Voran. “You have our deepest thanks, Your Highness.”

  Voran nodded and smiled with a wry twist of his mouth, as if he knew perfectly well how much Ridvar resented the offer. He probably does know, Salamander thought. He doesn’t miss much, I’ll wager, froggy grin or not.

  Calonderiel stepped forward to rejoin the conversation. “I suggest that we deal with Honelg immediately. He’s like a dagger aimed at your back.”

  Ridvar considered him but said nothing. Blethry cleared his throat. “I think he’s right, Your Grace,” the equerry said, “for what that’s worth.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Ridvar said. “The man is my vassal.” He put just a touch of stress on the “my.” “If I remember Honelg’s dun properly, we might need the Mountain Folk’s help to breach his walls.”

  Calonderiel glanced at Salamander and gave him an encouraging nod.

  “It’s well fortified, all right,” Salamander said. “The banadar has a point, Your Grace, because Honelg has a great many points on his side—iron ones, attached to arrows.”

  “And—” Cal hesitated, glancing at Daralanteriel, who shook his head ever so slightly. “As my lords decide, then.”

  “You have my thanks, banadar,” Ridvar said. “As you do, too, gerthddyn. You risked your life to bring us the truth. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”