The Gold Falcon (12 page)

Dallandra smothered her little fire, then left her tent, which stood on the edge of the encampment. When she turned toward the sea, she could see the tidy whitewashed buildings of the new town, Linalaven mandra, a name that meant “sorrow but new hope,” though most often its inhabitants merely called it Mandra, “hope.” From her vantage point, its whitewashed square buildings seemed as pale as ghosts against the nighttime sea. Even though returning refugees from the Southern Isles had built the town over twenty years ago, it still amazed her every time she saw it: a proper town, sheltering not Deverry men but her own folk, with a town square and straight streets, trees and gardens, a town fountain and a holy spring. Beyond them, out of her immediate sight, lay farms. All her long life she’d known only wild sea grass in this spot, sea grass and rock and the winter waves that crashed and boomed on the long pale beach. The waves still crashed, but onto a rocky seawall now, jutting out into a new harbor, where a wooden pier offered docking for elven longships.

With a shake of her head, Dalla turned away and strode through the camp. Despite the new town, most of the People, as the elven folk called themselves, still spent every spring and summer traveling in small groups, or alarli, following their herds of horses and flocks of sheep. In this alar two dozen round tents sprawled across a meadow near a stream. Out in the grasslands behind them, a herd of over four hundred horses, guarded by armed riders, grazed at tether.

In among the tents, the adults stood talking together in twos and threes or sat around small fires, finishing the evening meal. Children ran around, playing with leather balls, chasing each other or their dogs. Occasionally, Wildfolk materialized to join the games. Warty little gnomes wandered between the tents; translucent sylphs and pale sprites flitted after the children or teased the dogs, who couldn’t see them but who could feel their pinching fingers. The dogs would bark and snap, and the Wildfolk would disappear, only to pop up smirking somewhere nearby.

On the surface the camp seemed no different from the elven camps Dallandra had always known. The tents were just as brightly painted, the fires just as warm. The People lived their lives as noisily as ever, in a society of ever-shifting relationships that made Deverry folk shake their heads in bewilderment. But here and there Dalla saw the signs that everything had changed.

In front of every tent, like guests at the meal, stood longbows and quivers. Mail shirts and other pieces of armor lay close at hand as well. Most of the men and some of the women wore swords, even when they were merely chatting with old friends. At the cry of birds passing overhead the camp would fall silent; hands on sword hilts, a few men would look up, judging whether or not the birds were ordinary creatures or magical spies, mazrakir, as the Horsekin called shape-changers. Sooner or later, everyone knew, the same raids that were bleeding the human farmlands were bound to ride their way.

In the middle of the camp Dallandra finally spotted the Banadar, or warleader, of the Eastern Border, to give Calonderiel his official title. He was sitting by himself on a dead log in front of his tent, the second largest in camp. In the flickering firelight the deer painted upon the tent walls seemed at moments to fling up their heads, ready to run. Calonderiel’s hair gleamed, so pale it was almost white, but shadows hid his violet eyes.

“I’ve spoken to Ebañy,” Dallandra said. “And I see trouble coming.”

Calonderiel looked up, startled. “What’s he done now?”

“It’s not what he’s done, it’s what he’s found.”

Calonderiel moved over to give her room to sit beside him on the log, but after a moment’s hesitation, she knelt on the ground nearby. At the gesture he winced; he’d fallen in love with her all over again, and as it had before, his devotion annoyed her. Before he could speak of his feelings, she brandished Salamander’s news like a shield.

“The Horsekin are raiding in Arcodd again.”

“Bastards!” Calonderiel paused to spit into the fire. “I wonder if Cengarn’s going to call in our alliance?”

“I don’t know, but maybe Ebañy can find out. He thinks the Horsekin might be trying to hide something, a fort or armed camp, he said, near the border.”

“And they’re using the raids as a distraction?”

“Well, that’s what he suspects. He doesn’t know. I take it that seems logical to you.”

“It’s the first thing I thought of. If his suspicions are right, we’ll have to mount some kind of attack. A Horsekin fort nearby? Ye gods, it’s like a dagger at our throats!”

“That’s rather what I thought, too.”

“We might be the ones to call in our alliance with Cengarn, not the other way round. At least we have Mandra now. If things get desperate, we can get the prince and his family to safety there and fortify the place. If it looks like the town’s going to fall, well, they have boats.”

“Do you think things will get that desperate?”

“Who knows?” Calonderiel shrugged. “But we might as well plan for the worst. Which reminds me. We need to send messengers to Braemel. We’re going to need every ally we have. Huh!” Cal paused to shake his head and smile. “I remember how angry I was when that Horsekin woman—Zatcheka, wasn’t it?—arrived to visit you.”

“You were even angrier when I went to Braemel to visit her daughter.”

“Yes, I was. Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

“You?” Dallandra laid her hand on her forehead and feigned shock. “Wrong?”

“I deserve that, I suppose,” Cal said, glowering. “But I’m glad now that you know the Gel da’Thae and their ugly language, too. Think Braemel will send us aid?”

“Yes, I do. They’re as afraid of the wild Horsekin as we are. Never forget that. They may all look alike to us, but the Gel da’Thae see themselves as very different from the tribal Horsekin.”

“Good.” Calonderiel stared into the fire, his mouth working as he thought things through. Eventually he looked up. “Did Ebañy have any other news?”

“Yes, but only of a personal sort.”

Calonderiel waited expectantly. When she said nothing more, he picked a stick up from the ground and began shredding the bark with a fingernail. Dalla longed to tell him her news, that two powerful dweomermasters had been reborn close at hand, that perhaps they might recover the lore and the power it gave them quickly, in time to aid the People in their battle with the Horsekin. But he knew nothing of the great secret, that souls lived many lives, and she was forbidden by her vows to tell anyone unless they asked her outright.

Eventually Cal tossed the stick onto the fire and looked up. “Do you remember Cullyn of Cerrmor?” he said.

“Jill’s father? I never met him, but I certainly know who he was. Why?”

“I was just remembering a time long long ago, when Cullyn was the captain of another lord’s warband, and we were drinking together. I saw an omen, or felt it, or something like that.”

“And it was?”

“That someday we’d ride together in a war, an important war, the most significant one we’d ever fight.” He tossed the stick into the fire and looked at her. “When he died, I realized that the omen must have been some silly imagining on my part.” He paused to glare at the fire as if it had offended him. “It’s a pity, too, because I’d love to have his sword on our side now. Ye gods! We’d better go tell the prince.” Calonderiel stood up. “Trust Ebañy to be a bird of ill omen!”

But I’ll wager you were right about Cullyn,
Dallandra thought.
The pity is that I can’t tell you so.
Suddenly she felt so cold, so frail, that she could barely speak. She started to get to her feet, but she staggered and nearly fell. Calonderiel caught her by the shoulders and steadied her.

“Are you ill?” he said.

“No, it’s just the omens. I feel omens round us, thick as winter snow. I’ll be all right in a bit.”

“Dalla, Dalla, you pour out your life for us, don’t you?”

She could see genuine concern in his dark violet eyes, a compassion far different from his usual romantic longing. When he laid the back of a gentle hand against her cheek, she let it rest there for a moment before she turned away.

“I’ll be all right,” she repeated. “We have to go tell the prince.”

Ever since his father’s death some three years previously, Daralanteriel was technically a king, the overlord of the legendary Seven Cities of the far west, but since their ruins had lain abandoned for over a thousand years, everyone referred to him as a prince. It seemed more fitting to save the title of king for a man who had something to rule. Even so, Daralanteriel tran Aledel dar, Prince of the Seven Cities and Ranadar’s Heir, traveled with a retinue these days. Along with a hand-picked group of sword warriors, Dallandra with her dweomer and Calonderiel with his band of archers kept the royal family constant company. If the Horsekin should raid, they’d find the prince well guarded.

Daralanteriel’s tent, the largest in the Westlands, dominated the center of the camp. The deer hides that covered the wood frame had been cut into straight panels, laced together, then painted. On the tent flap and around the opening hung painted garlands of red roses, so realistically portrayed that it seemed one might smell them. The rest of the tent sported views of Rinbaladelan in its days of glory. One panel portrayed the high tower near the harbor, another the observatory with its great stone arcs, a third the temple of the sun, so detailed that it seemed one might walk among them—not, of course, that anyone alive had ever seen the actual city to judge the accuracy of the paintings. The artist had followed the descriptions in a book belonging to Daralanteriel’s scribe, Meranaldar. While the book was a copy of a work saved from the destruction of Rinbaladelan, some twelve hundred years previously, it lacked any actual drawings.

Even though they were royal, Dallandra found Dar’s wife and daughter sitting on the ground in front of their tent like any other Westfolk family would do, sharing a meal of roast rabbit and flatbread. Dressed in a loose tunic over doeskin breeches, Princess Carramaena of the Westlands knelt by the fire and poked at the coals with a green twig. Some few feet away, her eldest daughter, Elessario, sat with her knees drawn up and her arms clasped around them to allow her to rest her head upon them. Superficially the two women looked much alike, both of them blonde, with pretty, heart-shaped faces. Their eyes, however, differed greatly. Elessario’s eyes were a dark yellow, and cat-slit like all elven eyes. Her mother, a human being, had blue eyes and the round pupils of her kind. At the sight of the banadar, Elessario grinned.

“Cal!” Elessario said. “Where’s your son?”

“Maelaber?” Calonderiel said. “Taking his turn on horse guard. Where’s your papa?”

“Doing the same thing.” Elessi giggled, then hid her mouth with one hand. She was a changeling, or so the People called the wild children who’d been born to them over the years. Although she was the most normal of them, her mind had stopped developing when she’d been about twelve years old.

“Then I’d best go fetch him.” Calonderiel glanced at Carra. “We’ve had some bad news.”

“I’ll come, too!” Elessario scrambled to her feet.

“Say please,” Carra said.

“Please, Cal? Can I come with you?”

“You may.” Calonderiel gave her a smile. “But you’ll have to be careful around the horses.”

They hurried off, with Elessario talking all the while. Carra shook her head and sighed.

“My poor little changeling! To think we thought she’d be the queen of the Westlands one fine day.” Over the years Carra had become fluent in Elvish, though one could still hear Deverry’s rolled R’s and Rh’s in her accent. “I’m so glad we’ve had other children.”

“So am I. You must be looking forward to seeing the girls. I’m assuming they’ll come to the festival.”

“They’d better, or I’ll have some harsh words for them. Perra must have had her baby by now, too. I can hardly wait to see them both.”

Dallandra smiled and sat down near her. “Some news—I’ve heard from Salamander.”

“Has he found Rhodry?”

“Not to say found him, but he did see him, flying over the Melyn River. He’s not sure whether or not Rhodry saw him, or heard him either. Dragons make a lot of noise when they fly.”

“I remember Arzosah, yes, flapping those huge wings of hers.” Carra paused, suddenly sad. “Dalla, is there anything anyone can do for him? Rhodry, I mean, to change him back again. I can’t bear it, thinking of his being like that forever. He would have died for us, after all.”

“In a way, he did. Unfortunately, I don’t have the dweomer to bring him back. I honestly don’t know if anyone does.”

Carra bit her lip hard.

“Well, he may be perfectly happy,” Dalla went on. “In a way, he’d stopped being human long before Evandar gave him dragon form. You saw him after battles. That berserker laugh!”

“I can hear it still, yes, whenever I think of him. If only Evandar were still alive! Do you think he could turn Rori back?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, but he’s gone. I don’t know if any other dweomermaster will ever match his power.”

“Probably not.” Carra reached up and touched her cheek, still as smooth and unlined as a young lass’. “It’s because of Evandar that I’ve not aged, isn’t it? He told me once he’d give me a gift, and it’s this, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed, you’ve guessed his riddle.” Dallandra felt her voice waver. “He did love riddles, and his elaborate jokes.”

“You still miss him, don’t you?”

Dallandra nodded, fighting back tears. Over the years the true mourning had left her. Whole months would pass with never a thought of Evandar, but now and again, she would remember some detail of their time together, and the grief would stab her to the heart.

Fortunately, a distraction arrived in the person of Carra’s youngest child. Followed by a pair of big gray dogs and a stream of Wildfolk, Rodiveriel came running. Laughing, he threw himself into Carra’s lap. The dogs flopped down, panting, displaying wolfish fangs. They had white faces and a black stripe of coarser hair down their gray backs like wolves as well, but they were, or so Carra assured everyone, merely dogs, descendants of the loyal pet that had guarded her when Elessi was an infant.