The Gold Falcon (48 page)

“My dearest aunt, don’t vex yourself! We don’t need to talk about that now.”

“You may not, but I need to talk about somewhat besides our Adranna.”

“Very well, then. I truly don’t care about the ceremonies of the thing. I’ve got Neb, and that’s all I wanted.”

“How generous you are, dear! Unlike some menfolk we know.” Galla looked at her soggy handkerchief and threw it viciously to the floor. “I think there might be a clean one of these in that wooden chest by the window.”

Branna had just fetched the handkerchief when someone knocked on the door, and she heard Lady Solla’s soft voice calling Galla’s name. Branna hurried over and opened the door to find Solla and Dallandra, still in her borrowed dress, standing just behind her.

“How does our lady fare?” Solla said.

“Reasonably well, dear,” Galla called out. “Do come in, and, how lovely, our guest is with you.”

“I was worried,” Dallandra said. “This whole thing is utterly ghastly.”

Branna ushered them inside. Two chairs stood in the curve of the wall; she moved them near Galla. She herself sat on the broad stone windowsill. With Dallandra there, Branna’s worst fears lifted, leaving her feeling like a nearly-lost child who at last sees her mother hurrying toward her in the crowded marketplace. Although she had no conscious memories of Dalla’s dweomer, she knew that she was in the presence of a woman of great power.

“The men are having their council of war,” Solla said. “My brother’s taken all of his lords up to the chamber of justice, and most of the women have gone off to the women’s hall with Drwmigga. I decided I didn’t feel like sitting there. It’s such a hot day, so airless.”

“It is that,” Galla said. “But it must be hard for you, too, being turned out of the hall that was yours until a few days ago.”

“There’s somewhat of that in it,” Solla said with a rueful little smile. “Most of my things are packed, by the way, so I can leave with you when the time comes. Drwmigga has graciously offered me the loan of a horse cart to take them.”

“Very gracious, indeed.” Branna put venom into her voice. “No doubt she wants to be the only cow in the pasture. You can practically hear her moo in triumph.”

“Branna! How awful of you!” But Solla smiled with a wicked light in her eyes. “Your Neb is sitting in at the council of war. He told me to tell you that he’ll give us a report as soon as he can.”

“Excellent,” Galla said. “But I know what our menfolk are like. It’s going to be a long evening, once they start. Branna, dear, I brought a set of wooden wisdom. Perhaps someone would like to have a game or two.”

“I certainly would,” Solla said, “and I’ll send a page for some Bardek wine. We can have our dinner up here, too, if you’d like that.”

As Branna got up to fetch the game box, she glanced Dallandra’s way. The elven woman was smiling pleasantly, but her eyes seemed to be looking at some view a thousand miles away. All at once Branna felt the hair on the back of her neck rise.
She’s scrying for danger,
Branna thought.
There’s someone out there who wishes us harm.
Although she couldn’t say how or why, she knew it as surely as she knew that fish have scales.

“Thethingis,” Salamander said, “Honelg’s dun is going to be wretchedly hard to take. A handful of archers on the walls could hold off an army.”

“Assuming they have enough arrows,” Calonderiel said.

“He’s a fearful man, Honelg, and for good reason. I suspect he has arrows by the bushel stowed here and there about the dun.”

Calonderiel swore under his breath in a mix of Deverrian and Elvish. They were walking downhill through Cengarn. All around them the town lay asleep and dark except for the occasional line of candlelight from a shuttered window. Overhead, the drift of stars supplied just enough of a glow for their elven eyesight to find the way. Now and then a dog would bark as they passed. Otherwise silence wrapped the town.

When they reached the city wall, they found the main gates closed, but a yawning guard greeted them and held his lantern high to peer at their faces.

“You must be part of the Westfolk warband,” he said.

“We are indeed,” Calonderiel said. “Can you let us out?”

“I can. The gwerbret sent orders down to open the side gate for you whenever you wanted. Come round here.”

Holding the lantern high, he took them past the little guard house to an oak plank door in the wall. It was bolted twice and barred as well. This side gate proved to be a mere slit between the stones.

“We’re the last,” Salamander said. “So you won’t be bothered again.”

“Ah, good.” The guard nodded in satisfaction. “The prince and his escort came down a while ago. The lady with him—is that the princess?”

“She’s not,” Calonderiel said with something of a snarl in his voice. “She’s my wife.”

“Then you’re a lucky man.” The guard stepped back into the doorway, as if he feared a blow. “Good night, all of you.”

“Wife?” Salamander said once they were out of earshot.

“It’s the only Deverry word that fits at all,” Cal said.

“Or at least, the only one I could think of.”

They went on down to the meadow below, where the dun’s pavilion and the elven tents stood, ghostly in the pale light of the stars. In camp Dallandra, who had changed back to her tunic and leather leggings, and the prince were sitting by a small fire in front of the royal tent. Although most of the Westfolk archers and the men of the Red Wolf warband had turned in for the night, Gerran was still awake, sitting next to Dar.

When Salamander and Calonderiel joined the group by the fire, Salamander noticed that Cal not only sat down next to Dallandra, but clasped her hand as well.
I don’t know why he’s jealous
, Salamander thought.
He’s the only man I know with the guts to court her, or at least, court her openly, unlike some that I could mention—and where is that little weasel, anyway?

“Where’s Meranaldar?” Salamander said aloud.

“We’ve not left him behind, have we?”

“You didn’t. I was transcribing my notes.” The scribe came out of the tent, then sat down across from the prince.

“I’ve been telling the captain here about the council of war,” Prince Daralanteriel said. “Well, as much as I could sort out of the general noise, anyway. By the gods of both our peoples! How do you Deverry men ever decide anything? I’ve never seen a council with so much shouting, arguing, cursing, and general confusion.”

Gerran laughed and nodded his agreement.

“Fortunately,” Daralanteriel went on, “Prince Voran finally saw fit to call an end to the wrangling.”

“But by then, Your Highness,” Gerran said, “he and the gwerbret knew what every lord in the chamber was thinking. If any of the noble-born are going to cause trouble, they know that, too.”

“Good point,” Daralanteriel said. “Your people seem held together by a web of alliances. They’re so complicated that I can’t say I understand them all. It looks fragile to an outsider.”

“Spiderwebs don’t look like much either, Your Highness, but when a fly blunders in, they hold up well enough.”

“Um, what were they arguing about?” Salamander said. “I thought the gwerbret had already decided to march on Honelg.”

“He had,” Dar answered him. “The questions in dispute were with whom and how many of them. Day after tomorrow, he’ll be taking half his own warband, our archers, the prince’s men, and Cadryc’s warband. The rest of the men will stay in Dun Cengarn on fortguard. The other lords will ride home and get their men and alliances ready for the march on Zakh Gral.”

“Which is the real prize, of course,” Calonderiel put in.

“Of course.” Gerran turned to Salamander. “I’ve only seen Honelg’s dun once, years ago, when I was but a lad. It stood on a good-sized hill, then, but it didn’t sport much in the way of earthworks. His highness here told me that Honelg’s fortified the gates.”

“He’s built a veritable maze.” Salamander paused for a small groan. “There’s a narrow path that twists back and forth through high earthworks. A murder alley, I’d call it, since he’s got archers.”

“We might have to invest the place and leave a force there, then,” Calonderiel put in. “Some of the lords were arguing for that.”

“You’ll need every man you can get for Zakh Gral,” Salamander said. “The place is teeming with Horsekin warriors.”

Gerran swore under his breath.

“Let me make sure I understand.” Dallandra leaned forward to interrupt. “We can’t storm the gates, because Honelg’s archers will be able to pick our men off. And our archers won’t be able to get near enough to pick them off. Is that it?”

“It is and well put,” Gerran said.

“Ah.” Dallandra sat back. “I see.”

The men waited for her to go on, but she merely smiled blandly at them.

“Well, Captain,” Daralanteriel said at last, “we’d best get some sleep, I think. I wish we were marching out tomorrow.”

“So do I, Your Highness.” Gerran rose and bowed to him. “My thanks for telling me about the council.”

Gerran strode off into the darkness in the direction of the Red Wolf pavilion. Calonderiel waited, listening until his footsteps had died away. Then he glanced at Dallandra and raised an eyebrow. “Out with it,” he said in Elvish. “I can tell that you’ve got something in mind.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” Dallandra smiled at him, then stood up. “Ebañy, come with me, will you? We need to put a seal over the camp.”

Before Calonderiel could object, she hurried off in the opposite direction from the one Gerran had taken. Salamander scrambled up and hurried after, catching up with her at the edge of the ford. Starlight danced on the surface of the placidly flowing river, mirroring the vast River of Stars above.

“This is the worst possible place to do an astral working,” Salamander said. “And since I’m quite confident that you know it, I can but repeat the banadar’s remark. You’ve got something in mind, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dallandra said. “I’d already set the seals when we first came down from Cengarn. But I didn’t want to make this suggestion where any of the men could hear because I’m not sure it’ll work. I’m thinking of the dragons.”

“Aha! They could just fly above Honelg’s murderous gates and his archers both.”

“If that will do any good.” Dallandra turned and looked back to Cengarn’s high walls, black and looming against the starry sky. “Rhodry told me once that it was impossible to fight from dragonback because you can’t aim at anything.”

“Well, that’s discouraging.”

“I thought I’d ask Arzosah herself. She’s the one who’d know.”

“Is she nearby, then?”

“I have no idea, but I can summon her. I know her true name.” Dalla sighed sharply. “I only wish it were so easy to reach Rhodry.”

“So do I. I’ve been scrying for him now and then, by the way. I can find him easily enough, but he must be off in the wilderness somewhere. I haven’t seen one landmark I can recognize, just trees, rocks, meadows, so on and so forth.”

“I couldn’t recognize them either when I scryed for him. Well, if we summon Arzosah, maybe she can fetch him. Let’s get this working underway, shall we?”

“I stand ready to assist, O Mighty Mistress of Magicks.”

“I don’t want you to risk it. It’s still too soon after your long flight. I do want you to stand between me and the camp and think up a good lie if anyone hears me and tries to join us.”

“Anyone?” Salamander grinned at her. “You mean Cal.”

“Him, too.” Dalla returned the smile. “But Prince Dar has a touch of the ancient royal Sight, and for all I know, he has other dweomer talents as well and might feel drawn to come out here. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“Very well. I shall be your faithful watchdog.”

Salamander walked back to the midway point ’twixt camp and river and took up his post. The little fires between the tents and in front of the pavilion glowed red, burning down to coals. A light wind rustled the trees, and he could hear the river’s murmur. In a moment Dalla’s voice joined their music, calling out Arzosah’s name. It was no ordinary shout, but an eerie vibration drawn from her very soul, or so it sounded, oddly metallic yet as resonant as a harp string as well. She repeated it three times, sending the name like an arrow flying across the etheric plane as well as through the physical air: Arzosah Sothy Lore-ez-o-haz.

As the last call died away, Salamander glanced back and saw her sink to her knees. He ran to the ford and flung himself down to kneel beside her. When he put his arm around her shoulder, she felt cold to the touch.

“I’m not ill or suchlike,” Dallandra said. “I just need a bit of a rest.”

“No doubt! You loosed those names with the power of a storm behind them.”

“Well, I have no idea how far away she’s lairing.”

As they knelt beside the star-flecked water, Salamander found himself thinking of Rocca. The image of Zakh Gral built up before him, and he could see the altar of the Outer Shrine, glowing silver with dweomer light. Rocca knelt before the stone, her arms uplifted in prayer.