The Gold Falcon (14 page)

Her gnome certainly favored Neb. Whenever she met the young scribe, the gnome would materialize, grin at Neb, and clap its bony little hands. Neb would glance around to make sure that no one else could see, then smile back at the little creature. Yet oddly enough, Branna could never quite bring herself to speak to Neb about the Wildfolk. They were always in danger of being overheard, but even more, she was afraid of where such a conversation might lead them—not that she could understand her fear.

Alone, up in her chamber, she could talk openly to the gnome, who did his best to answer her with gestures. Any mention of Gerran brought a sour face and a surly shake of the head. One evening, tired from her day’s work, she took a candle and went up to bed early. As she sat in the window, combing her hair, the gnome appeared to perch on her dower chest.

“Do you think I should finish the shirt in there to fit Neb?” Branna said.

It nodded a yes.

“It’s so odd about his name. I mean, that it’s so, well, familiar. He really is like that ancient sorcerer, isn’t he? He’s got the same blue eyes and everything.”

The gnome clutched its head with both hands and mugged disgust.

“It’s absolutely impossible that he’s the same person. My folk don’t grow younger with time, you know. Besides, how can there be real dweomer? It’s just somewhat from old tales, like the ones Salamander tells.”

The gnome pointed at itself, then at her face.

“Well, truly, I do see you, and so does Neb, and other people say the Wildfolk aren’t real, but—” She let her voice trail away.
But what?
she asked herself. The gnome crossed its arms over its chest and smirked.

In the morning, as she was coming down for breakfast, she noticed Salamander, standing near the foot of the staircase and idly looking over the great hall. He glanced up, saw her, and bowed.

“Good morrow, gerthddyn,” Branna said. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, truly. And you?”

“I did, my thanks. I’ve been enjoying the tales you tell. So many of them seem to have dweomer in them.”

“There’s naught like a good marvel to catch your audience’s attention.”

“True spoken. You’ve traveled all over the kingdom, haven’t you?”

“I have.”

“I don’t suppose that you’ve ever come across—oh well, never mind. I don’t mean to be stupid.”

Branna started to turn away, but Salamander caught her by the elbow.

“Real dweomer, you mean?” He was grinning at her.

She pulled her arm free of his lax grasp and hurried away.
You dolt!
she told herself.
You’ve really made a fool of yourself this time!
At the honor hearth she risked a glance back, but Salamander had found a place at a table and was devoting himself to his breakfast. At the honor table Mirryn sat alone, slumped in his chair.

“Good morning!” Branna sat down opposite him and smiled.

Mirryn never looked up from his profound study of the table’s edge. His hair, usually a thick smooth brown, looked matted and spiky, as if he’d been running his hands through it out of sheer nerves, and his puffy eyes made Branna wonder if he’d stayed awake all night. A serving lass brought a basket of warm bread and a crock of butter, then trotted off again.

“What is it, Mirro?” Branna said. “You look troubled about somewhat.”

“Do I?” He ducked his head to avoid looking at her and reached for the basket.

“You do. What—”

“I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, to hear that you don’t want to marry a coward like me.”

“What?” Branna laid both hands on the table and leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

“My lady mother mentioned that you didn’t want to marry me, and why else, but everyone knows I’m a wretched coward who never rides to war.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid! That’s not it at all.”

“You don’t need to be kind—”

“Do hold your tongue and listen! I told her that it would be like marrying my brother. You can’t possibly want to marry me, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t, truly.” At last he looked at her. “It would be like marrying my sister.”

She burst out laughing, and in a moment he joined her.

“And you’re not a coward,” Branna said at last. “Everyone knows that Uncle won’t let you go to war. It’s not your choice.”

“How do you know that they think such?”

“Because I heard a lot of people talking about it when I was still back with Da. Da and his friends think Uncle Cadryc’s daft when it comes to you.”

Mirryn thought this over while he cut a chunk of bread in half with his table dagger. He handed her one of the pieces.

“Truly?” he said. “You’re not just trying to soothe my feelings?”

“Not in the least! It’s quite true. Butter, please?”

Mirryn slid the crock across to her and thought some more. “My thanks,” he said finally. “That gladdens my heart to hear.”

Branna was about to tell him more, but Cadryc himself was striding over to the table, with Aunt Galla trotting after. Branna rose, curtsied to them both, then sat down again when Galla took her place. For the rest of the meal they chatted about trivial things.

Later that day Salamander sought Branna out. To get a moment’s peace from the busy, dusty ward she had climbed up the catwalk ladders to the top of the dun wall. By leaning between two crenels she could look out on a long green view, striped here and there with the west-flowing streams that would eventually join the Melyn. She was thinking of very little when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something gleaming. She turned to look, and farther down the catwalk stood the figure of the old man in his ragged clothes, holding out a glowing opal. Branna caught her breath with a gasp, and he disappeared.

Am I seeing things?
she wondered.
Or is he one of the Wildfolk?
Although the figure reminded her of the man named Nevyn that she’d seen in her dreams, he looked somewhat different. She had never had such a dream as that one, when the opal had glowed like a candle flame, nor about any such gem. The old man seemed to be promising to give her something mysterious but beautiful, a rare gift indeed, if only she would come closer and speak to him. But what if it were a trap, and the gem the bait? Standing in the summer sun, she shivered and clasped her hands together to keep them warm.
Don’t be a dolt!
she told herself.
Why would anyone want to trap you?

A pleasant voice hailed her from below. Salamander came climbing up the rickety wood ladder to join her on the wall. She started to make some mundane greeting, then stopped, shocked into silence. Wildfolk swarmed around him—crystalline sylphs, winged sprites, pale warty gnomes.

“Good morrow,” Salamander said. “Is somewhat the matter?”

“Not at all, not at all. My apologies. You took me by surprise, is all.”

“Then I should apologize to you. I just thought I’d keep you company, if that’s acceptable.”

“It is, but I’d best get back to my duties. My aunt will be looking for me.”

“Perhaps later, then?”

“Perhaps.” She hesitated, but the gerthddyn was certainly amusing, and good-looking as well. “I might have a moment later.”

She swung herself onto the catwalk, then climbed down the ladder a little faster than was strictly safe. She could only wonder why she’d found it so frightening, that the Wildfolk followed Salamander around. It seemed to her that the world had turned suddenly strange.
From the moment I met Neb,
she thought.
That’s when it all started.
She felt that she should know what Neb’s arrival in her life meant, that she was looking at the back of a tapestry and seeing a tangle of color and thread hiding the true pattern. If she could only turn the cloth over and see the front, she would know the answer. If.

As Branna walked across the ward, she saw two dusty horsemen riding in. When they dismounted, she saw that their shields carried the sun blazon of Cengarn.
Messengers,
she thought. With a cold feeling around her heart, she hurried into the great hall. Behind her came a small mob of servants and riders, as anxious to hear the news as she was.

 

Nearly a fortnight after the tieryn had sent his letter, messengers from the gwerbret had finally arrived with the answer. Neb followed them in, hurried across the great hall, and knelt on one knee beside the tieryn’s chair at the head of the honor table. A messenger knelt on the other side and proffered the silver tube. Cadryc took it, glanced at the seal, and handed it to Neb.

“Read it as loudly as you can,” Cadryc said. “We might as well all hear the news at once.”

Neb got up and turned toward the crowd in the great hall. “To his grace, Tieryn Cadryc of the Red Wolf, I send greetings. I have no intention of appealing to the high king for aid in the matter you put before me. You were appointed to guard the border. The high king was not.” Neb glanced the tieryn’s way. “It’s signed—”

“We know who sent the cursed thing!” Cadryc had gone red in the face. He took a deep breath and paused to look over the great hall, crammed with every rider and servant in the dun, or so it seemed. Lord Mirryn worked his way through the mob and reached his father’s side. At the sight of him the tieryn smiled and turned calm.

“Well, the gwerbret may not want to appeal to the king,” Cadryc said, “but I see naught wrong with my appealing to the gwerbret. I’ll take fifteen men for an honor escort. As soon as the taxes and suchlike are all taken care of, I’ll ride to Cengarn.”

“Father?” Lord Mirryn laid a hand on his father’s arm. “I want to go with you.”

“What? And leave the dun unguarded?” Cadryc said. “There’s Horsekin prowling around, lad, and—”

“They’ve never raided this far east.”

“We’ll not argue about it in front of the whole great hall.” Cadryc’s voice turned into a growl.

Mirryn tossed his head, started to snarl, then smoothed his expression into bland indifference. “As you wish, Father,” he said. “But I’d like a word alone with you later, if I may.”

“Fair enough. Neb, you’ll be coming with us. I’ll tell Gerran to pick you out a horse.”

“My thanks, Your Grace.” Neb bowed to him. “May I have your leave to go? The chamberlain’s waiting for me out in the ward. More taxes have arrived.”

“You may. In fact, I’ll come out with you.”

 

Gerran had seen the messengers ride in, but by the time he reached the great hall, it was too full for him to squeeze his way inside. The news reached him, anyway, in the form of outraged chatter as the hall emptied. Servant and rider alike blustered and swore, that the gwerbret would treat their lord so rudely. Cadryc himself emerged only a few moments later.

“Did you hear what that blasted letter said?” Cadryc asked him.

“I did, Your Grace.”

The tieryn took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Once I see all the taxes safely in, we’ll ride to Cengarn. In the meantime, pick out a palfrey for the scribe and see if he knows how to ride it.”

“Well and good, Your Grace,” Gerran said. “The sooner we lay our case before the gwerbret, the happier I’ll be.”

They strolled together through the ward, which at the moment looked more like a market fair. Farmers stood beside wagonloads of winter wheat or chased after small droves of hogs and flocks of chickens while the frantic chamberlain ran back and forth. Two men dressed in the ragged clothes of shepherds were just coming through the gates, pushing a handcart piled high with shorn fleeces that looked a fair bit cleaner than they did. Off to one side Neb stood on a little island of calm and jotted down tallies on scraps of fraying parchment.

“The scribe seems to know what he’s doing,” Gerran said.

“He does, doesn’t he? He’s a confident lad for his age. I’d been a bit worried about old Veddyn, to tell you the truth. He forgets things.” Cadryc suddenly stepped away and waved to someone across the ward. “Ah. There’s Goodman Gwervyl. I’d best go speak to him personally. He’s a decent man with a bow, and he’s offered to train more archers.”

Gerran found a place to wait out of the way. Serving lasses hurried by, their arms full of empty baskets, heading for a wagon down by the gates. When he saw Lady Branna following them, Gerran stepped forward and bowed to her. She waved, gave him a brittle little smile, and trotted on past.
Not a very encouraging sign,
he thought. She probably saw him as nothing but a common-born lout, or worse yet, as bloodkin of a sort, thanks to his fostering. Either opinion would keep him at a distance. He wished he had a better idea of how to court a lass. Fortunately, the tieryn returned and broke into his gloom-laden thoughts.

“I’m not sure what to say to the wretched gwerbret,” Cadryc said. “Any ideas?”

“None, my lord.”

“We’ll have to think about it on the ride to Cengarn. I’ll have to be careful about how I put things. For now, work with the pages, will you? You’ll have to be firm with young Ynedd. His mother spoiled the lad, and he snivels all the time.”

“Well and good. I’ll see what I can do.”

Like all great lords, Cadryc had noble pages in his household, sons of his vassals sent to him for their training in warfare and courtesy. At ten summers Coryn was a decent enough lad, but Ynedd, a skinny little boy, all big blue eyes and blond curls, had never been away from his mother before. Gerran refused to let pity soften the lad’s training; someday Ynedd’s life would depend on how well he could fight.

They went round the back of the broch to practice away from the wagons and the livestock. Gerran let Coryn rest in the shade of the wall while he showed Ynedd the proper grip for the hilt.

“We’ll have to work on your wrists,” Gerran said. “All right, lay it down on the ground, then pick it up again.”

Glancing sideways at him, Ynedd did as he was told. Gerran had him pick it up and lay it down five times in a row, each time correcting his grip. Finally Ynedd flung the sword down.