The Gold Falcon (45 page)

“So I thought. Omen of what?”

“Danger, of course.” She paused to take a deep breath before she went on. “That kind of cold is always a warning of something ghastly.”

“We should raise a dweomer shield over the camp, then.”

“You’re right, but I’ll do the working by myself. I don’t want you putting any more strain on your mind.” Dalla paused to look at the sky. “It’s twilight now, so the astral tides will settle down soon.”

Salamander went back to the camp. He saw that the prince, his scribe, and the banadar were sitting in front of the prince’s tent. Some of the other men were still eating, though most had gone out to the meadow to bring the tethered horses in closer to the tents. They were hobbling them as well, just in case one of the dragons should fly over. The mere scent of wyrm would panic any herd, to say naught of the sight of them.

For a moment or two Salamander stood uncertainly in front of the tent he was sharing with Meranaldar and some of the archers. He needed to talk with Calonderiel about a delicate matter, a difficult proposition in the best of times, even though the banadar’s affair with Dallandra had sweetened his general outlook on life. He decided to take the coward’s way out and wait for Dallandra to join them.

The sky, in the west still a pale bluish gray, was turning as soft as velvet in the last of the twilight. Slowly it darkened; a scatter of stars came out on the eastern horizon, while to the west the last gold of sunset faded. Down on the earth, out beyond the horse herd, a flash of blue fire leaped up from the ground. It hovered in the air, then spread out, racing around the camp deosil to form a wall of blue flames. They grew taller, stronger, raced upward until they met at a center point high above the camp. At the cardinal points glowing gold sigils sprang into existence, the seals of the Elemental Kings, and another appeared directly above at the center point, the sigil of Aethyr. Dallandra had finished the astral shield.

Salamander realized that he’d opened his etheric sight without consciously choosing to do so, a very bad sign of that strain Dallandra had mentioned. He closed it down, then strolled over to meet her as she came back to camp. She strode along so purposefully that he could still see the gleaming sword of astral light in her warrior’s hand, but when she smiled at him, that small illusion vanished.

“Let’s sit down,” she said. “I’m tired.”

They joined the others in front of the prince’s tent. Salamander sat down next to Meranaldar, while Dallandra took her place next to Calonderiel. For a brief while they all discussed the road ahead, but eventually Salamander steeled his nerve and caught Cal’s attention.

“I’ve a favor to ask you, banadar,” Salamander said. “When we lay our news before the gwerbret, I don’t want you to mention Lord Honelg. The gwerbret and the priests between them will slaughter him and his men, and maybe even his womenfolk, for all I know.”

“So?” Cal said. “That’s what he deserves. He’d slaughter the lot of us if he could, wouldn’t he?” He paused to spit into the small campfire. “Vandar’s spawn!”

“That’s true.” Dallandra intervened, laying a hand on Cal’s arm. “But if we betray him to the priests, won’t his kin spread the word? Then the faithful will hate Vandar’s spawn even more.”

“Maybe,” Cal said. “But I don’t see how anyone could hate us more than they already do.”

“Well, you might be right, but it would be good to have the chance to show them how wrong they are.”

“You’ve got the best heart in the world.” Cal sighed in mock admiration. “Unfortunately, they don’t match you in that regard.”

“Well, surely,” Meranaldar joined in, “this sort of decision should be the prince’s.”

Cal turned his head and looked at the scribe—merely looked with eyes as cold and clear as ice on a winter stream. Meranaldar flinched.

“The banadar’s quite capable of handling this matter on his own,” Daralanteriel said. “As the old saying goes, too many fletchers crumple the feathers.”

“Thank you, Dar.” Cal turned to Salamander. “And what are you going to tell the gwerbret when he asks how you found the fortress? You just happened to meet a priestess on the road—that’s not going to sound very convincing.”

“Well, um, you’re right.” Salamander pulled a long face. “But I’ll think of something.”

“One of your lies, you mean.”

“Honelg fed me at his table and treated me as an honored guest. I can’t betray him.”

“Yes, you can.” Calonderiel crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. “I respect the law of hospitality as much as anyone in the Westlands, but this is no ordinary time. Hasn’t it occurred to you that our survival’s at stake here?”

“Of course it has, but—”

“There isn’t any ’but’ about it. I know you’re half a Roundear, but think, you chattering dimwit!”

Salamander flushed scarlet and laid a hand on his dagger’s hilt. Dallandra rose to her knees.

“Enough!” she barked. “Cal, that Roundear remark was quite uncalled for! Tact has never been one of your gifts, has it?”

“Tact? What good is tact?” Calonderiel said. “I’ve tried that on people, and they still don’t do what I want.”

Prince Dar burst out laughing, and in a moment Salamander joined him, simply because the remark was so true to the banadar’s nature. Calonderiel scowled impartially back and forth between them. Dallandra sat back down; she seemed to be suppressing a grin.

“By the Dark Sun herself,” Salamander said when he’d caught his breath, “you are a marvel, banadar.”

“I suppose I deserved that,” Cal said with some asperity. “But listen. You’ve already betrayed Honelg, haven’t you? You sat there at his table in his great hall and let the lies fall as thick as flakes of winter snow. So why are you having scruples now?”

Salamander’s leftover laughter died. He opened his mouth for a retort, then realized that he had none.
It’s not Honelg, it’s Rocca,
he told himself.
She’s the one you’re trying to protect, but she won’t be in his dun when the army arrives.

“You’re right, aren’t you?” Salamander said. “I shall tell the gwerbret everything.”

“Besides—” Cal stopped in midsentence. “Oh. You’re agreeing with me.”

“Yes, O Banadar Most Puissant. No more diatribes needed.”

That night Salamander dreamed that Sidro was stalking him with the silver dagger in one hand and the obsidian pyramid in the other. He woke to a sense of profound relief that the dream had been only that. In the tent the other men were still asleep, and he gathered his clothes and boots and went outside to dress to avoid waking them. Dawn was just silvering the eastern sky. When he glanced around, he saw Dallandra, kneeling beside the stream and gazing into the water. He walked over and joined her.

“Scrying?” he said.

“Yes, actually.” Dallandra sat back on her heels and turned to look at him. “I felt a presence last night, sniffing around the astral dome.”

“Ah. I wondered about that. I did dream of dear little Sidro, but I suspect it was but an ordinary dream, dancing to the harp of a troubled heart.”

“I hope you’re right. Although—” She frowned down at the water again. “If it wasn’t her, who was it?”

“That’s an unpleasant question, but, alas, also pertinent, fitting, and germane.”

“I have the awful feeling that we’re going to find out soon enough.”

“And we won’t like the answer?”

“I’d bet high on it. Oh, well, let’s go get some breakfast. I don’t see any reason to renew the seals now. The tides are still turbulent, and we’ll be leaving soon anyway.”

It was just past noon when the prince’s party came to Cengarn’s river. Through the trees shading the banks, Salamander saw white stones out in shallow water to mark the ford. Dallandra urged her horse up beside Salamander’s.

“This is where Jill died.” Dalla pointed at the ford. “The river ran much deeper that year. There’d been more rain, I suppose. At any rate, the etheric veil destroyed her body of light—and Alshandra’s, too, of course.”

“I see.” Salamander felt his throat tighten. He wiped away a scatter of tears on his shirt sleeve. “My apologies. Hearing the story always grieves me.”

“Me, too, but I’m looking forward to meeting Branna. She won’t be the same, of course, and I wonder if she’ll remember me.”

“Eventually she will.”

“Yes, that’s true. We became so close, working dweomer together, trying to save Cengarn. I suppose in a way we were like a couple of soldiers in a war. When she died—” Dallandra’s voice faltered. “Well, it was hard on all of us there at the time.”

With the prince in the lead, the Westfolk horses splashed across the ford. Once they were free of the trees on the far bank, Salamander could see the familiar cliffs of Cengarn, looming far above them. The meadow below the south gate held a surprise, however—a large canvas pavilion stood on the grass, and some thirty horses grazed at tether. Deverry men were standing or sitting on the grass near the pavilion. The prince called for the halt and rose in his stirrups to survey the situation. Dallandra shuddered; her face had gone a little pale.

“What’s wrong?” Salamander said.

“Sorry.” Dalla managed to smile. “I was just remembering the siege. The Horsekin had tents set up all around here.”

“This one doubtless springs from an overflow of wedding guests,” Salamander said. “A happier occasion all round.”

“One should hope it’s happier!” Daralanteriel reined his horse up next to Dallandra’s. “Now, I wonder. Should we just set our tents up out here rather than dragging everything up to the dun?”

“I don’t know.” Dalla sounded doubtful. “I’m always so afraid of slighting the Deverry lords. They care so much about honor and courtesy. Maybe we should wait to be told.”

With a shout of greeting, Gerran came striding over, his russet hair gleaming in the sunlight. He touched the prince’s stirrup to acknowledge Dar’s rank, then turned to Salamander.

“It gladdens my heart to see you alive,” Gerran said. “We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.”

“A great many things, few of them good,” Salamander said, grinning. “It’s a very long tale, and I’d best not launch into it now.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let me introduce you,” Salamander went on. “My prince, Daralanteriel, our banadar, Calonderiel, and our dweo—I mean, councillor Dallandra, this is Gerran, captain of Tieryn Cadryc’s warband, otherwise known as the Falcon.”

Gerran bowed to each as they were named. At Gerran’s nickname, Calonderiel’s eyebrows arched in surprise. The others acknowledged the captain with polite murmurs.

Gerran turned back to the prince. “Your Highness, the gwerbret’s servitors were wondering if you’d prefer to set up your tents out here rather than in the dun. Me and my men would be honored to have you and yours among us. We could guard your horses along with our own, too.”

“I would, and my thanks,” Daralanteriel said. “Well, Dalla, there’s our answer. We’ll leave most of the men here to set up camp.”

“And me and my men will be glad to help you,” Gerran said.

Calonderiel urged his horse forward. “I’ll stay behind for now to work things out with the captain here.” He nodded to Gerran, then paused with that oddly surprised expression returning to his face. Gerran looked just as startled by something, or so it seemed to Salamander. “We’ve met before, haven’t we, Captain?” Cal said at last.

“Not that I remember.” But Gerran sounded profoundly uncertain. “Have you ridden our way before, sir?”

“Not to the Red Wolf dun, but I’ve visited Cengarn several times.”

“Ah.” Gerran smiled in sudden understanding. “My foster brother and I were pages here.”

“That explains it, then.”

Salamander glanced Dallandra’s way and found her suppressing a smile. He was willing to wager high that Gerran was remembering Calonderiel from his previous life and not from his childhood at all.

“My thanks, Captain, for your offer of aid,” Dalla said. “My prince, we’d best get up to the dun. Let’s not forget the gwerbret’s wedding present. And remember, everybody—speak Deverrian from now on.”

When Daralanteriel led his much-reduced retinue into Cengarn’s ward, servants ran to meet the man they knew as the Prince of the Westfolk, and pages raced off into the great hall to announce his arrival. Trailed by councillors and servants, Gwerbret Ridvar himself came out to greet the prince just as he and his escort were dismounting. Ridvar seemed to have grown an inch or so since Salamander had last seen him, or perhaps he merely seemed taller with newfound confidence; in new linen shirt with his clan’s device at the yokes, with his dark hair bound round with a fillet of gold, he looked splendid, a true nobleman, as he strode over to bow to the prince.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” Ridvar said, “to my humble dun.”

“My thanks, Your Grace, though humble’s not a word I’d use of Dun Cengarn.” Smiling, Daralanteriel turned and gestured at the archer who was leading the golden gelding. “I’ve brought you a small token to congratulate you upon your wedding. I only wish it could be finer.”

“Oh, he’s glorious!” Ridvar forgot courtesy and rank both. He strode over to the gelding, who tossed his head in a ripple of silvery mane as if to greet him. “My thanks! A thousand thanks!”

Salamander glanced at Dallandra, mouthed a few words, then stepped into the crowd gathering around the elven party and slipped away. He was looking for Branna and Neb, but when he saw Lord Oth standing alone in the doorway of a side building, he hurried over. “And a good morrow to you, gerthddyn,” Oth said. “I don’t suppose you have any news for me.”

“About the Horsekin, my lord? I’m afraid I do, and it’s the worst news in the world. I found the fortress they’re building off to the west.”

Oth swore under his breath.

“Indeed,” Salamander went on. “I need your advice. When should I broach the topic? I don’t want to spoil the festivities, you see, and—”