The Gold Falcon (2 page)

For over fifty years, Dallandra and the Westfolk have stayed on guard against the Horsekin and the cult of their false goddess. Although Alshandra is dead, the religion she left behind lives on. Dallandra has also been doing her best to shepherd the other souls bound by wyrd to her and ultimately to Jill and Nevyn while she continues her own dweomerwork of serving her own people. But now, on the border between Deverry and the Westfolk lands, the winds of change are blowing, and they are ill winds indeed. . . .

The ancient Greggyn sage Heraclidd tells us that no man steps in the same river twice. Time itself is a river. When a man dies, he leaves the river behind, only to cross it again at the moment of birth. But betwixt times, the river has flowed on.

—
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

NEB STRODE ACROSS the kitchen and stood next to the window, no more than a hole cut in the wall, open to the smell of mud and cows. Still, he found the air cleaner than that inside. Smoke rose from damp wood at the hearth in the middle of the floor and swirled through the half-round of a room before it oozed out of the chinks and cracks in the walls. Aunt Mauva knelt at the hearth and slapped flat rounds of dough onto the griddle stone. The oatcakes puffed and steamed. Neb heard his stomach rumble, and Clae, his young brother, took a step toward their aunt-by-marriage.

“Wait your turn!” she snapped. Her blue eyes narrowed in her bony face, and strands of dirty red hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat. “Your uncle and me eats first.”

“Give that batch to the lads.” Uncle Brwn was sitting at the plank table, a tankard of ale in his hand. “They’ve been pulling stones out of the west field all day, and that watery porridge you dished out this morning was scant.”

“Scant? Scant, was it?” Mauva turned and rose in one smooth motion. “You’ve got your bloody gall! Dumping more mouths to feed into my lap—”

Brwn slammed the tankard down and lurched to his feet. “You miserly barren slut! You should thank the gods for sending you my nephews.”

Mauva squealed and charged, waving her fists in the air. Uncle Brwn grabbed her by the wrists and held on until she stopped squirming. He pushed her back, then set his thick and callused hands on his hips, but before he could speak, she shoved her face up under his, and they were off again, screaming at each other, sometimes with curses, more often with meaningless grunts and squeals. Neb knelt down by the hearth, found a thin splint of wood, and flipped the oatcakes over before they burned.

“Get somewhat to carry these,” he hissed at Clae.

Clae glanced around the kitchen. On the sideboard stood an old flat basket; he grabbed it and held it up. Neb nodded, and Clae brought the basket over. Neb flipped the cooked cakes into the basket—three apiece. Little enough, but they would have to do. His screeching kin might quiet down before he could cook another batch. He stood up, grabbed the basket from Clae, and slipped out the back door. Clae followed, and together they slogged across the muddy farmyard and dodged around the dungheap. Skinny chickens came clucking, heads high and hopeful.

“Forgive me,” Neb said. “There’s barely enough for us.”

A packed earth wall surrounded house, barn, and farmyard. They hurried through the gate and trotted around the outside of the wall, where an apple tree stood to offer them some shade. They sat down, grabbed the still-warm cakes, and gobbled them before Mauva could come and take them back. Above them little apples bobbed among the leaves, still too green, no matter how hungry they were. Clae swallowed the last bit of cake and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Neb?” he said. “I wish Mam hadn’t died.”

“So do I, but wishing won’t bring her back.”

“I know. Why does Uncle Brwn put up with Mauva?”

“Because she lets him drink all the ale he wants. Are you still hungry?”

“I am.” Clae sounded on the edge of tears.

“Down by the river we can find berries.”

“If she finds us gone, she’ll make Uncle beat us.”

“I’ll think of some way to get out of it. If we get back late enough, they’ll both be drunk.”

Brwn’s farm, the last steading on the Great West Road, lay a mile beyond the last village. No one saw the boys as they hurried across the west field and jumped over the half-finished stone wall into wild meadow. It was a lovely warm afternoon, and the slanted light lay as thick as honey on the green rolling pasture land. Tinged with yellow clay, the river Melyn churned and bubbled over boulders. All along its grassy banks stood mounds of redberry canes, heavy with fruit, sweet from a long hot day. The boys gorged themselves, drank river water, and stuffed in a few more handfuls of berries. Clae would have eaten still more, but Neb stopped him.

“You don’t want the runs, do you?”

“I don’t, truly, but oh, it’s so good not to be hungry.”

They sat down in the warm grass and watched the river gleam like gold in the afternoon light, gliding along south to join the great rivers of the kingdom of Deverry—or so they’d always been told. They’d spent their entire lives here in Arcodd province. Off to the east stretched half-settled farmland; to the west and north, wild country. Far away south from their rough frontier lay the rich fields of the center of the kingdom and the fabled city of Dun Deverry, where the high king lived in a reputedly splendid palace.

When Neb turned to the north, he could see, about half a mile away, the smooth rise of pale tan cliff that separated this valley from the high plateau beyond. The river tumbled down in a spray of white laced with rainbows. Above, the primeval forest, all tangled pines and scruffy underbrush, stood poised at the cliff edge like a green flood, ready to pour over the valley.

“Neb?” Clae said. “Can we go look at the waterfall? Can we go up to the top?”

“I don’t think so. We don’t want to be caught up there in the dark.”

“I guess not. Well, maybe Aunt Mauva will be drunk soon.”

Materializing as silently and suddenly as always, the Wildfolk appeared. Knee-high gray gnomes, all warts and spindly limbs, clustered around the two boys. In the air blue sprites flew back and forth, wringing their tiny hands, opening tiny mouths to reveal their needle-sharp fangs. At the river’s edge undines rose up, as sleek as otters but with silver fur. The gnomes grabbed the sleeves of Neb’s torn shirt and pulled on them while the sprites darted back and forth. They would start north toward the waterfall, then swoop back to buzz around the lads like flies. A big yellow gnome, Neb’s favorite, grabbed his hand and tugged.

Clae saw none of this, because he was pawing through the grass. Finally, he picked out a bit of stick and began chewing on it.

“Get that out of your mouth,” Neb said. “And come on, we’re going to have a look at the waterfall after all.”

Clae grinned and tossed the stick into the river. An undine caught it, bowed, and disappeared into foam.

In a crowd of Wildfolk the two boys headed upstream, following a grassy path beside the noisy river. Now and then Clae seemed to feel the presence of the gnomes. When one of them brushed against him, he would look down, then shrug as if dismissing the sensation. For as long as he could remember Neb had seen the Wildfolk, but no one else in his family had the gift of the Sight. He’d learned early to keep his gifts to himself. Any mention of Wildfolk had exasperated his literal-minded mother and made the other children in town mock and tease him.

The two boys followed the river to the white water churning around fallen boulders. They panted up the steep path that zigzagged along the cliff face, then turned to look back. Under a black plume the distant village was burning. Neb stared, unable to comprehend, unable to scream, merely stared as the bright flower of flame poured black smoke into the sky. Little people, the size of red ants from their vantage point, scurried around and waved their arms. Larger ants chased them and waved things that winked metallic in the sun. A cluster of horses, the size of flies, stood on the far side of the village bridge. The farm—it too burned, a blossom of deadly gold among the green meadows. Two horses and riders circled the earthen wall.

“Raiders!” Clae’s voice was a breathy sob. “Oh, Neb! Horsekin!”

Overhead a raven shrieked, as if answering him. The two riders suddenly turned their horses away from the farmstead. They broke into a gallop and headed upstream for the waterfall.

“Into the forest!” Neb said. “We’ve got to hide!”

They raced across the grassy cliff top, plunged into the forest, and ran panting and crashing through the underbrush among the pines and brambles. Twigs and thorns caught and tore Neb’s shirt and brigga, but he drove his brother before him like a frightened sheep until at last they could run no more. They burrowed into a thick patch of shrubs and clung together. If the slavers caught them, they would geld Clae like a steer.
And they’d kill me,
Neb thought.
I’m old enough to cause trouble.

Neb could see nothing in the tangled mass of forest. He could hear only the waterfall, plunging down over rock. Had they run far enough? Voices—Neb thought he heard voices, deep ones, muttering in what sounded like anger, then a crash and a jingle, very faint, as if someone had dropped something metallic on to a rock. He did hear a shout that turned to a scream. Clae stiffened and opened his mouth. Neb clapped a hand over it before he could speak.

Whether voices or not, the sounds died away, leaving only the chatter of the waterfall to disturb the silence. Slowly the normal noises of a forest picked up, the distant rustles of small animals, the chirping of birds. The yellow gnome appeared to perch in a nearby bush and grin. It patted its stomach as if pleased with itself, then disappeared. Slowly, too, the gray twilight deepened into a velvety night. They were safe for now, but on the morrow in the sunlight the Horsekin might return to search the woods. Neb realized that he and Clae had best be gone as soon as it was light enough to see.

Eventually Clae squirmed into his brother’s lap like a child half his size and fell asleep. Neb drowsed, but every snap of a twig, cry of an owl, or rustle of wind woke him in startled terror. When at last the gray dawn came, he felt as stiff and cold as an old man. Clae woke in tears, crying out at his memories.

“Hush, hush,” Neb said, but he felt like weeping himself. “Now we have to think. We don’t have a cursed bite to eat, and we’d best find something.”

“We can’t go down to the river. If the Horsekin are still there, they’ll smell us out.”

“They’ll what?”

“Smell us out. They can do that.”

“How do you know?”

Clae started to answer, then looked away, visibly puzzled. “Someone must have told me,” he said at last.

“Well, we’ve heard plenty of tales about the Horsekin, sure enough. Speaking of noses, wipe yours on your sleeve, will you?”

Clae obliged. “I never thought I’d miss Uncle Brwn,” he said, then began to weep in a silent trickle of tears.
Our uncle’s dead,
Neb thought.
The last person who would take us in, even if he was a sot.

“We’re going to walk east,” Neb said. “We’ll follow the rising sun so we won’t get lost. On the other side of the forest, we’ll find a village. It’s a long way, so you’ll have to be brave.”

“But, Neb,” Clae said, “what will we eat?”

“Oh, berries and birds’ eggs and herbs.” Neb made his voice as strong and cheery as he could. “There’s always lots to eat in summer.”

He was, of course, being ridiculously optimistic. The birds’ eggs had long since hatched; few berry bushes grew in forest shade. At every step the forest itself blocked their way with ferns and shrubs, tangled between the trees. They had to push their way through, creeping uphill and hurrying down as they searched for the few herbs that would feed, not poison them. Water at least they had; they came across a good many rivulets trickling down to join the Melyn. By sundown, Clae could not make himself stop weeping. They made a nest among low-growing shrubs, where Neb rocked him to sleep like a baby.