The Gold Falcon (57 page)

Cadryc blinked rapidly, then shook his head, as if he were making sure he was truly awake and hearing correctly.

“Well, then, Neb,” Prince Voran said, “go tell her she should poach as many of the temple’s cattle as she can eat. It would soothe my heart a bit, and I’d imagine the gwerbret’s heart as well.”

At that Ridvar managed a smile, but only a thin one. Neb bowed to the nobility all round, then jogged off to rejoin Dallandra. He could see her and Salamander standing near the dragon in a field on the far side of the Westfolk tents. He wasn’t sure if the prince had been only making a jest about the temple cows, but he was angry enough himself to relay the order to Arzosah.

“What a regal heart Voran has!” Arzosah paused to rumble in laughter. “I think me I’ll take him up on that.”

“When we flew over the temple,” Salamander put in, “I spotted a fine-looking herd of white cattle out in one of its fields.”

“I smelled them,” Arzosah said, “and my mouth watered. I take it that the prince was displeased because the priests were as stingy as always.”

“Worse than stingy,” Neb said. “I’d say they were threatening open rebellion.”

“What happened?” Dallandra snapped. “I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about that temple.”

“If you’d been inside with us, it would have been worse. Let me just look at my notes.”

Quickly Neb gave them a summary of Voran’s points. When he repeated the priest’s response, Salamander swore under his breath, and Arzosah hissed like a thousand cats. Dallandra, however, listened quietly, her mouth set in a twist more thoughtful than angry.

“Voran wasn’t asking the priests to stand ready for war themselves,” Neb finished up. “Nor did he want them to furnish troops. He merely wanted the villagers to have the strength to defend themselves if need be.”

“They’d also need some reason to defend the temple lands,” Salamander said. “If I lived under that temple’s rule, I’d desert the moment I saw the least sign of danger.”

“Me, too,” Neb said. “I suppose the priests could be asked to help provision an army in time of war. Maybe that’s what vexes their miserly hearts.”

Dallandra took a few steps away, then stood staring up at the distant temple.

“Or is it more than that, Dalla?” Salamander spoke softly.

“It may be, it may not.” Dallandra kept staring at the temple. “I don’t see any astral seals over the place.”

“Would they bother to raise seals?” Arzosah joined in. “They may not know there are dweomermasters among us.”

“If they were studying dark dweomer, they’d know. Believe me, they’d know. They’d have sentinels of a certain kind posted. I’ve not seen any.”

“Ah, but what if they’re being clever?” Salamander said. “They may have withdrawn all their workings so we won’t spot them.”

Dallandra let out her breath in a puff of frustration.

“We can draw reasonable conclusions all night,” Salamander went on, “but alas, alack, and welladay, we won’t know if they’re true or false.”

“Just so,” Dallandra said. “But I think me I’d best find out.”

“Dalla, you’re not going to try to go up there, are you?” Neb said. “The priests will never let you in.”

“Oh, that’s true enough.” Dallandra glanced his way with a smile. “But I don’t intend to ask their permission.”

Although Neb couldn’t put his insight—or memory—into words, he suddenly guessed what she was planning. “Dalla, are you sure it’s safe? The feel of that place—there’s somewhat gravely wrong up there. It’s almost enough to make me believe in evil dweomer.”

“You should believe in it, because it’s real, sure enough.” Dallandra said. “As to whether or not someone in that temple is working it, well, that’s what I want to find out.”

Dark dweomer? Neb shivered in revulsion. He desperately wanted to believe that no such thing existed, but deep in his mind he saw memories, mere bits and flickers of images barely formed, but enough. It existed, then, the evil perversion of dweomer, and he realized that he’d never really doubted it. Other memories struggled to rise, and this time, he could give them words. “The high priest might well be walking that path,” Neb said. “He was trying to ensorcel Voran.”

Salamander caught his breath in a gasp of surprise. Arzosah swung her head around to look Neb’s way.

“I take it he didn’t succeed?” the dragon said.

“He didn’t,” Neb said, “but Govvin was staring at Voran the entire time, and trying to manipulate his—his—ye gods! I’ve forgotten the word.”

“Aura.” Salamander supplied it. “This Govvin must not be very skilled.”

“True spoken,” Dallandra said. “But let’s not rush to underestimate a man who might be an enemy. Although—” Again she paused to gaze at the temple. “He might merely know a few mental tricks.”

“And where would he have learned them?” Arzosah said.

“From someone who takes coin for his dweomer teaching.” Dallandra turned away from her study of the distant temple and glanced at Salamander, who nodded his agreement. “There are silver daggers of the soul as well as of the sword. The ones with the swords are far more honorable, of course.”

“Secrets like that don’t come cheap,” Salamander said. “It would explain the miserliness, if the high priest were bartering his taxes for tricks from one of the dark masters.”

“That’s true,” Dallandra said. “If I’m wrong, and they’re all merely coldhearted misers, then getting in should be easy enough.”

“And if they’re not?” Salamander quirked an eyebrow.

“Then it will be difficult, of course.” Dallandra laughed, a brittle little bark. “I need to plan this very carefully.”

“I’ll be flying over the temple later tonight on my way to those cows,” Arzosah said. “I’m no match for you or for Salamander, but I do know a few bits and pieces of dweomer. I can take a look around, if you’d like. A scouting expedition, we may call it.”

“I would like, and my thanks.” Dallandra suddenly grinned. “And may you have luck on your cow hunt, too! Neb, Ebañy, we’d best go back to camp and get our own dinner. No doubt Cal is boiling over with curiosity, wondering what we’re up to out here.”

The sun was long gone, and the wheel of stars was marking the midpoint of the summer’s night, when the entire army heard a concatenation of noise—a distant bellowing of cows, men yelling at the tops of their lungs, and the drumming of enormous wings, beating the sky. Neb pulled on his boots and hurried out of the tent along with all of the archers and Salamander. Most of the army woke, stumbling out of their blankets to stare at the sky. Up at the temple points of light bobbed along the walls—torches, most likely, in the hands of servants.

In the pale moonlight Neb could just make out a dragon shape, circling high above the priestly dun, then moving on to plunge down out of sight behind it. In but a few moments Arzosah rose again, but slowly. Her wings were beating so hard that the camp could hear them, at that distance rather like the sound a humming-bird makes, though up close it must have been deafening. Limp white shapes, barely visible, dangled from her claws.

“She got two!” Neb said with a laugh. “By the gods, she’s strong!”

“Dragons are generally known for that,” Salamander said. “I hope she’s not going to eat them near the horses.”

Arzosah had apparently kept the horses in mind. She flew well clear of the army’s camp, landing beyond their sight somewhere off to the east. Shaking their heads, laughing or cursing in awe, the watching men slowly migrated back to their blankets and a few more precious hours of sleep, but the shouting up at the temple went on for some time.

With the morning light the high priest of Bel, flanked by four priests each carrying a quarterstaff, marched down from the temple and across the road to the camp. Two sentries hurried to meet him. Neb, who happened to be close by, stayed to watch as the priest demanded to speak with Prince Voran.

“His dragon has stolen some of our cattle,” Govvin said with a snarl. “I demand repayment.”

The sentries both bowed, and one darted off to fetch the prince. While he waited, Govvin stood with his feet spread a bit apart and his hands on his hips. Voran, with a chunk of bread and cheese in one hand, ambled slowly over to meet him. He smiled his froggy grin and bobbed his head Govvin’s way to acknowledge him.

“What’s so wrong, Your Holiness?” Voran said.

“That dragon!” Govvin shook a finger in the prince’s direction. “It stole two of our best cows. The beast is obviously yours, and I expect you to pay for them.”

“Mine?” Voran took a bite of his bread and chewed it thoughtfully for a long moment. “No man owns a dragon, Your Holiness. She’s chosen to accompany us, is all, for some reason of her own.”

Govvin’s hands tightened into fists.

“Besides,” Voran went on, swallowing hastily, “yesterday you told me, and I quote, ‘naught that happens here is your affair, Prince Voran.’ I believe I’ve got that right.” He glanced Neb’s way. “The scribe would know.”

“You have, Your Highness,” Neb said. “Word for word.”

“It stuck in my mind, like.” Voran waved his chunk of bread in the priest’s direction. “So why are you bringing this matter to me?”

Govvin started to speak, stopped himself, turned red in the face with narrow-lipped fury, then turned on his heel and stalked off, followed by his guards. It took a great effort of will, but Neb managed to keep from laughing. Voran, however, did laugh, only a gruff masculine chuckle, but the head priest heard him.

Govvin turned around and glared. Voran fell silent, but the priest kept staring at him. Slowly, guards in tow, Govvin took a step toward the prince, then another, while Voran stared back as if he were naught but a carved statue.
The bastard’s done it!
Neb thought. He flung up both hands, and Wildfolk appeared, swarming around him, a troop of spider-spindly gnomes and furious sprites, dancing in the air. The fat yellow gnome stood among them and shook a tiny fist at the priest.

“Go!” Neb whispered.

With a howl of rage like a distant winter wind, the Folk charged. Govvin suddenly screamed and swung around to face them as they mobbed him, a wave of angry fists and teeth. The priest swatted and writhed; his guards rushed forward; Voran woke from the spell with a toss of his head and a few choice curses. The prince’s men rushed forward to his side as Voran barked orders.

“Get the chirurgeon!” the prince said. “His holiness is having a seizure.”

Govvin’s guards surrounded the priest and tried to shield him from the gawking onlookers, but Govvin swore and raged in a steady stream. Two of his guards dropped their staves and caught Govvin by the arms. Apparently they, too, thought that the priest had taken ill, judging from the soothing words they were chanting like a spell. “Just rest, please lie down, we’re right here, Your Holiness, please lie down!”

“Enough,” Neb said quietly.

The Wildfolk vanished, except for the fat yellow gnome, who came skipping back to Neb’s side. Govvin let out one last whimper, then fainted into his guards’ arms. Voran’s chirurgeon came running with his apprentice, burdened with two bulging sacks, trotting after. Someone hurried up behind Neb and called his name—Salamander.

“Neb, come with me.” There was a bark of command in the gerthddyn’s normally pleasant voice. “Now, before that misbegotten miscreant wakes up.”

“I want to see what happens,” Neb said. “Why leave?”

“So he won’t recognize you, you dolt!” Salamander laid a heavy hand on Neb’s shoulder. “Dallandra wants to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Neb turned cold. “I see.”

Neb let Salamander chivvy him along at a trot until they were well away from the priest and the crowd around him. They slowed to a walk, but a fast one, and found Dallandra waiting in front of her tent. The three of them ducked inside.

“He was ensorcelling the prince,” Neb said. “I had to stop him.”

“I know that,” Dallandra said. “I was watching from a distance. I’m going to go have a look at Voran and see if his aura needs clearing. But I don’t want the priest knowing who summoned the Wildfolk.”

“Indeed,” Salamander joined in. “I just hope he didn’t notice Neb before they attacked.”

“So do I,” Neb said. “They were swarming around me, but it all happened so fast that I don’t know if he saw or not.”

Salamander groaned under his breath.

“You can’t protect yourself yet,” Dallandra said, “but I can handle his malice if he tries it on me. I’m going to lay a false trail.”

Dallandra took a sack of medicinals with her so she could pretend that she was merely offering to help the chirurgeon, then summoned Wildfolk. Sylphs and sprites streamed after her like an icy cloud following a north wind as she strode through the camp. When she reached the side of the road, where the incident had happened, she found a small mob of men and Westfolk gathered in a rough circle. At an order from Prince Voran, the crowd parted to let her through.

In a clear area in their midst, His Holiness Govvin was sitting up, slumped against another priest, who knelt behind him to support his back. Blue and purple bruises pocked Govvin’s face and arms. The chirurgeon and his apprentice were kneeling to either side. Voran, who was standing nearby, waved Dallandra over. The cloud of Wildfolk followed her.