The Gold Falcon (23 page)

“I’ve no idea, if you mean which plane. I certainly never summoned her or anything else, for that matter. She just walked into my camp.”

“What was she like?”

“She looked like a woman at first glance, but then I realized she was floating a few inches off the ground. She had blue hair and dead-white skin.”

“Was she wearing a torn dress, a blue one?”

“She most certainly was! But it was hard to tell if the dress shape lay over her body or was part of her body.”

“I think I know what she might be. Did she speak to you?”

“Yes. She wanted to know where the ‘new Jill’ was, but I didn’t tell her. There was something sinister or mayhap menacing about her. Perhaps I should call it—”

“Never mind! I take it she frightened you.”

“I was not frightened.”

“Imph. Anyway, if she’s who I think she is, she can appear when she chooses, without being summoned. Stay on guard. She can be dangerous.”

“You’ve met her before, I take it.”

“Yes. I once helped the Lords of the Wildlands drive her into a trap. Do you remember when your brother first came to the Westlands? You went off to search for Devaberiel while he stayed with Aderyn.”

“Ah. I think I know what you mean now. The sprite who was one of the Wildfolk, originally, and she fell in love with our Rhodry.”

“It’s much more complicated than that, but that’s enough to get on with. She tried to make herself into a real woman to please him, and she nearly killed both of them before Jill and Aderyn caught her.”

“Do you think she wants revenge on Jill?”

“I don’t know. By rights, the little minx should be grateful. She was in a great deal of danger, wandering aimlessly in the physical world and afraid to go back to her own. But you never know with spirits. You might want to set wards around your camp tonight.”

“Have no fear of that, O princess of powers perilous! Pentagrams shall abound.”

Even with the wards glowing all around him, Salamander had a restless night’s sleep. He woke at every rustle of wind among the trees, but the white spirit never returned. Finally, with the first light, he gave up on sleeping as a bad job and left his blankets. Once he’d tended his horses, he got on his way north.

About midmorning Salamander rode up to a stone marker announcing that he was passing into the demesne of Mawrvelin, under the lordship of most holy Bel. Great Bel’s priests apparently took their privileges as lords seriously. Toward noon Salamander rode past the temple, looming behind thick stone walls at the top of the big hill that had given the place its name. He could just make out the gates, shut tight, glinting with iron bands in the sunlight. Although the priestly lands looked just as well-watered and the soil just as rich as Cengarn’s, he could see the difference between overlords at the first farm he came to. The farmer and his family wore ragged clothes, their roof needed fresh thatch, their plow horse displayed a good many ribs. The priests were appaently exacting their full measure of taxes if not more.

By asking around in a sad little village Salamander found Canna, the woman who’d been rescued from the Horsekin some years past. The fellow in Cengarn had described her as a “pretty little thing,” but while she still had the long red hair he’d admired, she’d grown gaunt and stoop-shouldered. Deep wrinkles lined her face, but it was her hands that caught Salamander’s attention. They were callused, scarred, and stained a yellowish brown, but he could tell that the bones beneath were thin and frail. Her wrists, too, were all bone and not much of that. As she stood in the farmyard to talk with Salamander, she held a baby on one hip. A toddler clung to her skirts, a little lass of perhaps six years leaned against her, and out in the fields beyond the house Salamander could see two older children, working with a man who, he could assume, was their father. When Salamander offered Canna a copper for her story, she snatched it, then hid it in a little pouch hanging round her neck.

“Well, now,” she said, “all that about the Horsekin, it happened years ago now, and truly, I can’t say I remember much. The terror—well, I do remember that. I was sure as sure, we all were, that we’d never see home again.”

“A frightening thing, indeed,” Salamander said. “I hope that none of you were harmed.”

“We weren’t, none of us women, I mean. They’d already killed our men.” Her voice went flat with stale grief. “My da died that night, when they raided. But once they’d got us away, they treated us better than we’d feared. Gave us food, and no one touched us wrong, if you take my meaning.” Canna narrowed her eyes in thought. “Well, there was two kinds of men there, the Horsekin men, and they gave us no trouble. Then there were some fellows who were human like you and me, good sir, fighting for the Horsekin if you can believe that. They wanted a bit of fun with us, but that old priest stopped them.”

“Old priest? Zaklof?”

“Don’t remember his name. I heard they let him starve to death later.”

“Zaklof, then. So he kept you all from being raped?”

“He did, swearing at them and threatening them with somewhat or other. Couldn’t understand a word of it, we couldn’t, but the men did, and that’s what mattered, wasn’t it? He was saving us for the sake of some sort of goddess. Shandrala or somewhat like that.”

“Alshandra. Did he tell you captives much about her?”

“Naught.” She glanced at the baby, who was sucking dirty fingers. “Stop it!” She slapped his hand. “If I remember rightly, he was going to, but the gwerbret’s men got there before he could start.”

The baby whimpered and began pulling at the front of her torn gray dress.

“Now, I’ve got to feed my little one here,” Canna said. “Can’t remember much more anyway.”

“Fair enough, then,” Salamander said. “Just one more question, if I may. How far are Lord Honelg’s lands?”

“Another day’s ride. I’ve been told that there’s a stone marker up, ’twixt his lands and the priests.”

“What’s his blazon, do you know?”

“He and his men ride by every once in a while. It’s a blue circle with a black arrow across it, but not straight. Sort of tilted, like, pointing up.”

“My thanks. Well, I’ll be going on now and let you get back to your children.”

As he rode away, Salamander was thinking about Honelg’s blazon.
How very interesting! If that arrow means what I think it means, he’s cursed bold, what with the temple lands right next to his.

Yet, of course, Honelg had a perfectly legitimate reason to add an arrow to his clan’s blazon. Eldidd lords had known about the power of longbows for many a year, but it had taken the Cengarn War, and the way that elven arrows skewered enemies, to catch the attention of the Deverry lords. Although they considered using a bow beneath them personally, the northern nobility all wanted archers among their freemen. A good many of them reduced the taxes of any farmer who could provide a longbow and the skill to use it in times of war. Once Salamander crossed into Honelg’s demesne, he found young yew trees lining the road, some tall enough to supply a stout six feet of wood to a bowyer, all placed far enough apart to prevent them weaving their branches into a hedge. They must have been planted soon after the siege of Cengarn, Salamander figured. Like oak, yew grew in its own time and refused to be hurried.

He also saw a couple of farms where the cows and pigs looked well-fed, and the healthy-looking people he saw were decently dressed. When he stopped at their gates, they invited him inside and offered him a stoup of ale and a bit of food. Salamander played the affable gerthddyn, juggling and singing for the children, telling the adults tales based on the Cengarn War. Each time he mentioned Alshandra, calling her a false goddess, he watched his audience carefully, hoping for some betraying reaction. Finally, in the straggle of houses that formed the demesne’s only village, his hunting brought game.

On a hot humid evening the villagers gathered around the stone well to listen to this unexpected delight, a performer from down in Deverry. Salamander put on his performance shirt and secreted scarves, eggs, and the other such things he needed inside its hidden pockets. As the twilight began to fade, someone lit a pair of torches, and the black smoke thinned the cloud of gnats and mosquitos that had joined the audience. Salamander perched on the stone wall at the well and described the lifting of the siege.

“But all this slaughter would have been in vain,” Salamander said, “if the mighty magicians within the walls had not slain the false goddess, that demon, that illusion, Alshandra. How the Horsekin shrieked when she was slain—”

“That’s not true!” It was a child’s voice, from well back in the crowd. “She’s not dead.”

Everyone in the crowd gasped or swore, squirmed as they sat or turned to look back. At the edge of the pool of torchlight two figures, one short, one taller, shrank back into the darkness.

“Indeed?” Salamander said. “What’s this? I don’t understand.”

No one spoke or moved. In the smoky light Salamander had trouble discerning their facial expressions, but they seemed to be terrified. Finally the local blacksmith stood up and stepped forward. Salamander had noticed earlier that he seemed to have some sort of authority in the village.

“He be just a little lad,” Marth said. “Given to fancies, like.”

“Ah, I see. Well, shall I finish the tale?”

“Please do.”

Marth sat back down, and the crowd relaxed with sighs and murmurs, a soft sound like the wind in the yew trees that ringed the village in a living palisade.

That night Salamander camped outside the village in a fallow field. He could understand the villagers’ fear. If the priests of Bel got wind of an alien worship, they would head straight for Cengarn and demand that the gwerbret root it out. No doubt Honelg lacked the men and the influence to protect them. But what, he wondered, of the lord himself?

Roughly an hour’s ride on the morrow morning brought him to Lord Honelg’s dun, unprepossessing except for its elaborate defenses. It perched upon a low but steep hill, wound round with a path that led, eventually, to the gates. Deep ditches ran alongside the path to keep any attackers upon it, easy prey for bowmen. At the top, a stone wall surrounded the dun, but it was rough work, not much better than the dry-stone walls surrounding farmers’ fields, though the irregular rocks had been fitted with some care. In a few places Salamander saw mortar holding the largest in place.

When Salamander rode up to the wooden gates, he found them open, though only by a few feet. A gatekeeper, wearing a hauberk and carrying a sword, stood between them. Salamander dismounted and put on his best shallow smile.

“And a good morrow to you, my good man,” Salamander said. “I am a gerthddyn, ridden here from southern lands with a stock of tricks, tales, jests, and—”

“We know who you are,” the fellow interrupted. “Marth sent a lad up to tell us you were on the way.”

From the shadows on either side of the half-drawn gates two more armed men stepped out. Salamander kept smiling by force of will.

“Are you sure you’ve not mistaken me for someone else?” Salamander said. “I’m naught but a gerthddyn. I call myself Salamander, but my real name’s Evan from Trev Hael.”

The fellow’s mouth twitched in something like scorn. He was a tall man, with black hair swept back en brosse and narrow dark eyes. He wore new-looking brigga, woven in a blue, black, and tan plaid, and under his hauberk his shirt appeared to be fine linen.

“Do I have the honor of addressing Lord Honelg himself?” Salamander said.

“You do, but I’m not sure how much of an honor you’ll find it.”

His voice, flat and hard at the same time, made Salamander’s stomach clench. Salamander realized that he would have to risk everything on a bold gesture—because in one sense, he was risking nothing at all. Honelg would kill him in an instant should he think him a priestly spy or even just a busybody.

“A man named Zaklof told me you give a better welcome than this,” Salamander said, “to the right sort of guest.”

Honelg blinked several times, rapidly.

“I have a token to show you,” Salamander went on. “It’s in my saddlebags. May I bring it out?”

“You may.”

Salamander’s fingers shook, just slightly, as he unlaced the flap.
What if I lost the wretched thing on the road? Worse yet, what if he’s been to Trev Hael and knows a gerthddyn never lived there?
The gold arrow, however, still lay in its pocket, and the lord, apparently, never went far from home. As soon as Salamander held up the arrow, Honelg nodded to his men, and sheathed his sword.

“My apologies for the scare,” Honelg said. “Living so close to Bel’s priests—we can’t be too careful.”

“Oh, fear not, I most assuredly understand. Haven’t I been turned out by my own kin for my beliefs? Haven’t I wandered the kingdom ever since Zaklof’s death, desperate for more news of
her
yet afraid for my life?”

Honelg looked him over, his eyes narrow again. “Zaklof died a fair many years ago.”

“So he did. Every summer, my trade takes me this way and that, traveling all over the west. Once a town’s heard all your tales, they won’t pay for them anymore, so it’s taken me a while to return to the Northlands.”

The lord’s hand strayed to his sword hilt.

“I have—nay, I had—a wife and family,” Salamander went on. “I couldn’t just up and desert them. Not until our neighbors forced me to leave Trev Hael could I take up my search in earnest.”

“Ah.
She’d
not have her worshipers abandon their little ones, that’s certainly true. What did you do, start talking about
her
?”

“Not precisely. First of all, I had this arrow made when I was far from home, but one of our neighbors managed to get a look at it. That made them suspicious, and then just last year—” He paused for a dramatic shudder. “Maybe you’ve heard of the horrible disease that struck Trev Hael, a ghastly inflammation of the bowels, and it killed so many people? Well, my family was spared by some miracle. The neighbors ran to the meddling priests in the local temple. They were sure I’d worked witchcraft or suchlike to afflict the town, and I had to run for my life. My wife believed their lies and refused to come with me.”