The Gold Falcon (21 page)

Dallandra had told Salamander about the two noble-born brothers who had worshiped Alshandra, but she’d never given him a clear idea of the geography around Cengarn. “These lords,” Salamander said, “they held demesnes off to the west, did they?”

“North, not west, up in on the edge of the wild country. A good thirty mile, I’d say, if not a bit more.”

“Near the foothills,” a skinny red-haired fellow put in. “The ones that rise up to the Roof of the World.”

“But not so far as all that,” Mallo said. “Now, the river that runs hard by Cengarn? Follow it, and it’ll take you there. Well, should you be a-wanting to go, of course.”

A few more well-phrased questions on Salamander’s part brought him to the captured priest of Alshandra. He’d died recently enough that all the men in the tavern knew the story.

“His name was Zaklof,” the red-haired fellow said. “A miserable excuse for a man, if you ask me, but he died bravely enough. The gwerbret’s men kept offering him food, more to tease him, like, than to save him, but he turned it all down. My daughter was working in the kitchen up at the dun, and she saw it all.”

“You know,” Salamander said. “Zaklof’s tale could be profitable for a man like me. I’ve heard somewhat about it, but not enough, truly. Did your daughter ever discuss this goddess of his? Or what he believed about her, truly?”

“She did. She was impressed, like, that he’d hold so true.” He rolled his eyes. “Easily impressed, she was, but what do you expect from a young lass, eh? She nattered on a good bit about his beliefs.”

Another round of ale, and the fellow was glad enough to repeat all he remembered on the subject. Some of the other men joined in with bits and pieces of information about this new kind of religion, though they all mocked it, and quite sincerely.

“Still,” Salamander said at last, “it makes a good story. Now, the Horsekin had taken some of our people prisoners, hadn’t they?”

“They had,” Mallo said. “Some lasses and children, but the gwerbret’s men rescued them.”

“Ah, that sounds promising. Lasses in danger always add life to a tale. Do they live in Cengarn?”

“Not that I know of. Farm women, they were, or so I heard.” He gestured at his stiff leg. “I wasn’t riding with the rescue party.”

“Now, one of them,” the red-haired fellow joined in, “she married a man who farms north of here, Canna her name is. They hold land in the old Mawrvelin demesne.”

“I’d like to talk to her,” Salamander said. “I need some details, you see, to make the tale a good one.”

“I don’t remember her man’s name.” He frowned into his tankard for a moment. “She was a pretty little thing back then. Red hair down to her waist.”

“Who holds those demesnes now, anyway?” Salamander said. “The ones that used to belong to the traitor lords, I mean. It sounds like there’s another good story in that.”

Mallo answered him this time. “The priests of Bel have the big ’un, the one that used to belong to that wormy dog of a Matyc. His brother Tren’s dun went to a cousin line. The current lord, now, let me think—Honelg, his name is.”

“Honelg? That’s a strange sort of name.”

“He’s a strange sort of man.” Mallo shrugged elaborately. “But then, that whole clan’s always been a bit strange, up there on the edge of nowhere like they are.”

Salamander spent the rest of the day wandering around the market, stopping now and then to chat with local farmers. By late afternoon he’d pieced together a fairly good idea of the country to the north of town as well as the details of Zaklof’s death, which had left a strong impression in everyone’s mind. He bought market fare for his dinner, then went back to his room over the tavern. He paid the tavern lad—all of his possessions were safe and sound—then took his meal inside and barred the door.

Once he’d eaten, he had dweomerwork to do, and he didn’t care to be interrupted. Since it was far too warm to light a fire, he sat in the window seat and looked out at the sunset sky. Wisps and streamers of clouds, caught in the scarlet light, made a serviceable scrying focus. He contacted Dallandra easily and told her what he’d learned at the market fair.

“So I’ll travel north on the morrow,” Salamander finished up. “There’s a woman up there who was taken prisoner by the Horsekin some years ago. She may know useful things, such as where she was when the warband rescued her.”

“That’s true,” Dallandra thought to him. “After you find her, what next?”

“It depends on what she tells me, but most likely I’ll keep going north. At one point there was quite a colony of Alshandra worshipers up there, thanks to a certain Lord Matyc, who seems to have been a traitor. His demesne is now in the hands of the priests of Bel, so I’m not going to find a flourishing temple or the like, but again, someone might remember some useful thing.”

“Matyc certainly was a traitor. Do you know why the priests have that land?”

“I don’t, why?”

Dallandra’s image appeared troubled. “Your brother killed Matyc in a trial by combat. The priests presided, and the demesne was their reward.”

“I’d better watch what I say, then, about Rhodry and Alshandra both.”

“You should be careful, no matter where you are. It’s dangerous, scouting for Horsekin.”

“I do realize that, oh princess of powers perilous. If I’m going to find them before the summer’s out, I’ll need to work fast, too. It’s a pity that I have to ride or walk. If I could only fly—”

“It’s too soon for that.” In the cloud-vision her expression turned stern. “Your mind isn’t fully stable yet.”

“It never truly was, or so Nevyn always told me.”

“Don’t jest!” She shook her head in irritation. “Taking bird form’s a tremendous strain. Do you want to go mad again? You didn’t seem to much like it before.”

“True enough, O Mistress of Magicks Mysterious. Don’t worry. I’ll follow your orders.”

“I don’t want you to follow what I say like orders. I want you to understand why I’m saying it.”

“I do see. My apologies. I’m jesting, just as you said, and truly, I do know better.”

In the morning, Salamander left Cengarn and followed the river north. Close to town lay free farms, that is, those owned by freemen who owed loyalty directly to the gwerbrets of Cengarn with no tax-taking lords in between. Their lands, nestled between rolling hills, stretched green with pastures and burgeoning crops. Everywhere he stopped, Salamander heard stories about the dragons. A great many farmers had lost cows to them, or so they claimed with varying amounts of hard evidence. One man did show Salamander a cowhide he’d tanned. It bore the long gashes made by huge claws.

“I keep it to remember the cursed thing by,” the farmer said. “It’s not often you lose a cow to a dragon, and I thank all the gods for that! Look here, all I found was this hunk of leather, licked clean inside, and the horns and hooves. Blasted dragon had eaten everything else.”

“Was this the silver or the black?”

“The black. She carried the cow off in the twilight, so it was hard to see. The silver one would have stood out, like.”

“No doubt. My sympathies.”

“Oh, well, I was as angry as a boil-bum demon when it happened, but then I think, well, at least the dragons keep the Horsekin off, and so maybe one cow’s a cheap enough price.”

“Do you really think the dragons are driving off the Horsekin?”

“Ain’t any round here, are there?”

“True enough. My thanks for the information. I’d best get back on the road.”

When Salamander decided that he was far enough away from Cengarn, he found the gold arrow he’d bought from Warryc and tucked it into a pocket in one of his saddlebags. It might come in handy, he decided, if any of Alshandra’s followers still held true to their faith, up on the lands that Lord Matyc and his brother Lord Tren had once ruled.

O
n a muggy afternoon, under a sky black with storm clouds, Tieryn Cadryc led his men back to his dun. Branna was in the great hall with Lady Galla when they heard the clatter of hooves on the cobbles and the shouts of the pages and grooms as they ran out to greet the men. Branna had to stop herself from joining the general rush. She was surprised at how happy she felt merely from knowing she’d see Neb again. For decorum’s sake she waited inside—but just inside, and by the door in the servants’ and riders’ half of the great hall.

Not long after she’d taken up her post, Neb came hurrying in, loaded up with a bedroll, a basket, and some lumpy parcels wrapped in his extra shirt. Branna glanced around and saw Clae nearby.

“Take those up for your brother,” she said. “Well, if you can carry them all.”

“ ’Course I can!” Clae trotted over. “Here, Neb, hand them to me.”

“I’ll keep the basket,” Neb said. “There are things in there that cost our tieryn a good many coppers. Just take the blankets—wait, don’t tug!”

Branna solved the resulting confusion by grabbing the basket herself and letting Neb sort out the rest. Once a burdened Clae was heading for the staircase, she held out the basket. Smiling, Neb took it from her. For a brief moment their fingers touched. Mindful of her noble-born kin, standing not all that far away, Branna drew her hand back, but as they talked, exchanging ordinary pleasantries, she found that her hand kept reaching for his, almost of its own will, and that his definitely seemed to be seeking her fingers as well.

“Ah, well,” Neb said at last, “there’s your aunt coming. I’d best put the things I bought away, too. Oh, wait! I have a message for her from Lady Solla.”

Neb fished in his shirt, took out the message tube, and handed it to Branna. “If you’ll just give this to our lady?” He bowed and hurried upstairs, two steps at a time.

That evening, in the privacy of the women’s hall, Branna read the message aloud for Lady Galla. Out of boredom as much as anything, Branna had badgered her father’s scribe into teaching her how to read, an art that her aunt had never mastered.

“My dear Lady Galla,” Branna began, “I send my greetings and my hopes that you are well. I have some news to give you, though for now I implore you to keep it shut up in your women’s hall. My brother has started negotiations for a marriage. As of yet I’m not at liberty to tell you with whom, but as you can no doubt guess, she’s the daughter of a man of high estate. I tell you this now because I’m sore troubled. Once my brother is married, his wife will be his chatelaine, and I fear me that I’ll have only a grudged place here. If out of the kindness of your heart you might offer me a place with you as a servingwoman, I should be forever grateful. I do have a small legacy that I could contribute to my maintenance. I do hope you’ll consider my plea, yours, Solla of Dun Cengarn.”

“As if I’d ask a servingwoman to pay for her food!” Galla burst out. “The poor lass, she must be desperately afraid if she’d write such things.”

“Just so,” Branna said. “I rather know how she feels.”

“Indeed. Well, she’s certainly welcome here. On the morrow I’ll send her my answer, that she’s not to worry. We’ll invite her for a visit, and then we can discuss the matter. Our scribe will doubtless lend you some ink and suchlike.”

“It would be better if he wrote the whole thing. Reading’s a fair bit easier than writing.”

“Ah. I suppose it must be. I hope he can keep a secret.”

“Oh, I’m sure he can. He’s a man of excellent character. Well, or so it seems to me.”

Galla suddenly smiled. “You seem quite taken with young Neb.”

“Is it shameful of me?”

“Not in the least. He strikes me as the sort of man who becomes a gwerbret’s councillor or suchlike one fine day.”

Branna smiled in profound relief. With a little laugh Galla patted her arm. “In a way, my dear,” Galla went on, “your father’s nasty wife has done you a great favor. It’s not many lasses who have the freedom you do when it comes to picking a husband.”

“That’s true, isn’t it? I’d not thought of it that way before.”

“Well, you see? It’s a stingy flood that doesn’t leave fish behind, as they always say. But I wouldn’t be in a great hurry, either, to marry your scribe. You might wait to see what game the dogs rouse before you mark your hare. And besides, there’s Gerran.”

“True spoken. There certainly is Gerran.”

Over the next few days Branna felt more like the hare than the hunter. It seemed that no matter where she walked in the dun, Gerran would suddenly appear at her side, attentive but no more talkative than he’d ever been. Aside from the usual greetings he would merely stare at her, silent but as tense as a strung bow. At first she tried to make conversation, and he’d usually manage to squeeze out a polite sentence or two before resorting to staring at her with an expression that might be considered devotion. She began to notice, too, that after a few strained moments of Gerran’s silence Neb would suddenly come hurrying over to rescue her.

“They must both be keeping a lookout for me,” Branna complained to Galla. “I can’t go anywhere without one or the other just popping up out of nowhere like the Lord of Hell.”