The Gold Falcon (41 page)

It struck Neb as odd to mention the priest’s being awake, but when he stepped into the cool shadows of the temple, he understood.

At first the big round room seemed empty, lit only by two shafts of sunlight from narrow windows at either side of the door. Once Neb’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the statue of the god directly across from the entrance in the far curve of the wall. Some twenty feet high, Bel loomed in the shadows, the king of the world and lord of the sun, carved from the entire trunk of an oak that had been ancient, judging from its size, when it was honored by being cut down to serve the gods. Bel stood with his arms raised to shoulder-height and thrust at the observer in order to display the human heads, carved of a paler wood, dangling from his hands.

Nearby, in a three-legged half-round of a chair, sat a priest who seemed nearly as old as the tree. His wrinkled, frog-spotted skin stretched tight over his skull and his bony frame. Not only was he egg-bald, but he lacked eyelashes as well, and when he smiled, he revealed a single brown tooth off to one side of his mouth.

“Good morrow, lad.” The priest’s voice rasped and quavered. “Your name is?”

“Nerrobrantos, Your Holiness, scribe to Tieryn Cadryc of the Red Wolf.”

“Ah. Come closer, lad. I can hardly hear you.”

Neb hurried over and knelt before him.

“And what’s this question you have?” the priest said.

“Well, Your Holiness, I’ve heard tales from the local farmers about the ford west of the dun.”

“Ah.” The elderly priest interrupted with a smile. “The haunted ford, most like.”

“That was the tale, indeed, Your Holiness. Someone told me that at times the ghost of a lass appears. She seems to have a message for someone or some urgent task at hand. I was wondering if you knew who she might be.”

“Now that’s a new turn of the tale! I know of only one woman who died at the ford.” The old priest paused to suck his tooth. “A great many men and Horsekin did, however, in the general rout. I remember it well, seeing the river run red with blood.”

“It’s a grim tale, then.”

“It is.” Lallyn nodded slowly. “Now, the woman who died wasn’t a lass, but a white-haired female nearly as old as I am now. She was a witch, I suppose. How else could she have destroyed the demoness?”

“Demoness?”

“The one the Horsekin thought a goddess.”

“Alshandra?”

“That was the foul thing’s name, truly.” Lallyn paused again, this time to look away with rheumy eyes. “The witch had a bondwoman’s name. I’ve forgotten it. She and the demoness destroyed each other. Witches can call up demons, you know, but they always come to a bad end, the witches, that is. The demons too, I suppose. This one certainly did.” He sighed, nodding to himself. “Just as well, too. Just as well.” He let his chin rest upon his chest. In a few moments he’d fallen asleep.

Neb heard someone walk in behind him and turned to see the neophyte, no longer burdened with the loaf, gesturing at the door. The audience was at an end.

During his steep walk back up to the dun, Neb thought over the priest’s answer. The priests of Bel would see all dweomer as evil witchcraft, he knew. Some witches were reputed to survive their deaths in one form or another, either as haunts or as magical birds who could speak to the living under certain circumstances.
Like that raven?
he wondered. Perhaps the bird wasn’t an evil omen, but merely a ghost who wanted to tell Branna some secret or other. There was no doubt that his beloved had talent for dweomer. He had come to accept that fact, just as he had come to realize that he, too, was marked for a stranger craft than letter-writing.

If only I could find the room with the tapestries.
In his mind Neb had the image of a suite of rooms in a tower. In the largest, fine Bardek tapestries decorated the stone walls. Between two of the hangings a shelf of seven books waited for him, seven priceless books that stood between a pair of bronze wyverns. But he’d lost the way. He’d forgotten how to reach his rooms. As he puffed up the last hill to the gates of the dun, it occurred to him that Branna somehow knew where those rooms were. All at once he saw it with a strange cold certainty. If he could solve the puzzle of this ghost or this “other lass” or whatever was haunting her mind, he would solve his own riddle as well.

By the time he returned to the dun, noble-born lords and their honor escorts thronged the great hall. Servants brought the men ale in tankards and the noble-born, mead in goblets. Talk and laughter boomed under the high ceiling and reverberated across tables set so close that the serving lasses could barely edge through. The womenfolk of higher rank had retreated upstairs, but after some searching Neb found Branna, waiting at the top of the curving staircase.

“There you are!” Branna said. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“It all took a fair bit of time,” Neb said. “I did speak with the high priest. He’s immensely old. Why, he must be near seventy! His memory’s not what it was either, but he did know somewhat about the siege of Cengarn. That’s when a woman died at the ford, a witch woman, he called her. She somehow or other saved the city from the demoness Alshandra, destroyed her somehow, but it cost her own life.”

“Calling her a witch strikes me as a nasty way of speaking, then.”

“It struck me the same, truly, but what else can you expect from Bel’s priests?”

“Naught, I suppose.”

“She does seem to be the sort of woman who could come back as a haunt, doesn’t she? And maybe have a message for someone?”

Instead of answering, Branna half-turned and looked away down the corridor, but Neb doubted if she was truly seeing the view of doors and the far stone wall. All at once she shuddered, then turned back with a brittle smile. “I’ve got to rush off to the women’s hall. I should have been there ages ago, you see, to be presented to the gwerbret’s betrothed.”

Before Neb could say anything, she hurried off. About halfway down the corridor she opened a door and slipped into one of the few places in the entire dun where he was forbidden to go.
The idea of witchery scared her good and proper,
he thought. Later, he supposed, he’d be able to discuss it with her, once she’d had a chance to think it over.

 

The proper term for Lady Drwmigga, the gwerbret’s new wife, was bovine, Branna decided. Oh, she was pretty enough, with her long dark hair and dark blue eyes, and she wore a beautiful overdress, a gift from the queen herself down in Deverry—blue Bardek silk embroidered about the neck and down the sleeves with floral garlands in the Westfolk style. As she half-reclined in a cushioned chair, her pale hands flaccid in her lap, she smiled at the ladies of the her new rhan as if everything pleased her impartially, whether it was a honeyed apricot or a fulsome compliment. When she spoke, her voice was low and even, and she tended to let her words trail away to a whisper rather than finishing them smartly off.
Gwerbret Ridvar’s going to have some stupid sons,
Branna thought to herself,
but I’ll wager she gives him a lot of them.

The talk in the women’s hall centered around gossip and children, drifting now and then to the price of Bardek silk and glass drinking vessels and other such luxuries. Branna did her best to pay attention, but she was wishing she’d brought a piece of embroidery from home to work upon during these duty stints in attendance upon the new lady of Dun Cengarn. Still, the boredom was preferable to letting her mind wander to the tale of the witch—or dweomerwoman—who had died at the ford.

Thinking about that woman made her feel as if the room had filled with a sudden icy mist. Yet try as she might to keep her mind on the present conversation, Neb’s words kept creeping back. Release came at last in the person of a young maidservant, who slipped into the chamber with a curtsy for Drwmigga, then curtsied again to Branna.

“My lady,” she said, “your father rode in a little while ago.”

“My thanks for telling me!” Branna got up and curtsied to Drwmigga. “My lady, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course.” Drwmigga favored her with a good-natured smile. “Kin come before all else, I always say.”

The great hall seemed a good bit quieter, and a little less crowded, than it had been earlier—the effects of the generous servings of ale, no doubt. Here and there at one of the tables on the commoners’ side of the hall, a rider or manservant slept with his head pillowed on his arms. A pair of serving lasses wandered around, picking up tankards from the floor.

On the honor side, Tieryn Gwivyr stood near the doorway as he gave orders to his manservant. Gwivyr was a big man even for a Deverry lord, tall, barrel-chested, sporting a full mustache and a head of pale golden hair, dusted with silver. As Branna made her way down the stairs, she could feel her heart pounding in something like fear, but when she curtsied in front of him, Gwivyr smiled at her. With a flick of one hand he dismissed the servant.

“Good morrow, Father,” Branna said. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

“Pleasant enough.” His dark voice suited his build. “You look well, lass.”

“My thanks. I’ve been having a splendid time at Aunt Galla’s.”

“Good.”

“Father, I’ve somewhat to ask you. I’ve met the man I want to marry, and he wants to marry me.”

“You have, eh? And what does your uncle think of that?”

“He approves of him, and so does Aunt Galla. But, uh—well, uh—he’s common-born.”

“What?” Gwivyr wrinkled his nose. “Not a farmer or suchlike?”

“Not at all. He’s Uncle Cadryc’s scribe, and Aunt Galla says he has a great future ahead of him. She thinks he’ll make a councillor at some great lord’s court.”

“Oh.” Gwivyr turned a little away and looked across the hall. “Your stepmother’s not down yet, I see. We might as well settle this now. About your scribe, if Cadryc approves, I don’t see why I should argue. Marry to suit yourself, lass.” He paused for a laugh. “He won’t be demanding much of a dowry, will he now?”

“He’s not so much as mentioned a dowry.”

“Good. Let’s see, when you left for Galla’s, I gave you a riding horse and its tack, a cart horse and cart, and then you’ve got your dower chest. If he’ll take that, by all means marry him.”

“I’m sure that’ll be quite enough.”

“Good.” Gwivyr paused to look at the staircase. “Here comes your stepmother, and I’d best go join her before she starts her cursed complaining again.” With a last smile her way, he strode to the foot of the staircase, then greeted his wife with a bellow and a wave. The lady came down and hurried off without so much as a glance Branna’s way.

Branna stood staring after them and wondered why she felt like weeping. Hadn’t her father just given her the very boon she’d asked for?
But I wanted him to care
, she thought.
I truly did want him to care whom I married, even if he’d forbidden me.
She shook herself like a wet dog, wiped her damp eyes on her sleeve, then started back upstairs. Halfway up she met Galla, who was hurrying down to meet her.

“Well?” Galla blurted. “What did he say?”

“He agreed.” Branna managed to force out a smile. “He said I could marry whom I liked. Well, provided Neb accepts the dowry. It’s not much of one, just a couple of horses and a cart.”

“I can’t imagine he wouldn’t, but if not, then Cadryc and I will give it a bit more weight. We’ve won the real battle. That gladdens my heart, it truly does! Does Neb know yet?”

“Not yet. I’m not sure where he’s got to.”

“Let’s go down, and we can send a page to find him. I’ve had enough of the women’s hall, if you have.”

“Quite enough, my thanks!”

They walked on down and found an empty table near the dragon hearth, one equipped with proper chairs rather than backless benches.

“Now, let me think,” Galla said once they’d seated themselves. “We can’t announce your betrothal here and now, of course. It would be a terrible breach of courtesy. Naught should distract the guests from the gwerbret’s marriage. But once we’re home, we’ll have a splendid feast and invite all our vassals. I am
so
pleased Gwivvo saw reason!” She paused for a wicked grin and a wink. “It’s so unlike him.”

At that Branna could laugh, and her disappointment at her father’s reaction faded away.

“I don’t know where Cadryc’s got to either,” Galla said. “But if we wait here, he’ll doubtless turn up. Ah, there, however, is young Coryn. Page! Come here, lad!”

Coryn came trotting over, wiping his sticky face on the sleeve of his new shirt. Judging from the crumbs left on his chin he’d been eating honeycake, always in great supply at weddings.

“There you are,” Galla said. “Do you know where Neb’s got to? I want him to write a letter to our Adranna.”

“I’ll go look for him, my lady.”

“Very good, and then once you’ve found Neb, find and fetch the tieryn, too.”

With a bow, Coryn trotted off again.

“A letter?” Branna said. “Is there anyone in Honelg’s dun who’ll be able to read it?”

“Of course not,” Galla said. “In that ghastly place? The letter’s for the look of the thing, but I’ll ask your uncle to send a pair of his riders to speak the actual message.”

“You’re worried about Adranna, aren’t you?”

“I am. I never approved of that marriage, as you well know, not that your uncle or anyone else would listen to me, a mere mother though as noble-born as the rest of them.” Galla paused, scowling. “Well, let us talk of more auspicious things. This should be a happy day, not a gloomy one.”

Galla began pointing out the various noble lords in the hall and discussing their holdings. Now and then Branna thought of the witch’s ghost, but whatever or whoever she was, that strange presence failed to reappear.

 

By the time that Coryn found Neb, who’d been discussing ink with the gwerbret’s scribe in that worthy’s chamber, most of the noble-born women had returned to the great hall. Their presence had finished quieting down the crowd of riders and inspired the servants to bring out baskets of bread and cold meats to go with the ale and mead. Near the dragon hearth, Branna was sitting with her aunt and uncle. When Neb knelt by the tieryn’s side, Cadryc winked at him and smiled.