The Gold Falcon (60 page)

Down and down—suddenly they were in the tent, hovering over their bodies. To her surprise she realized that her body was lying twisted on the opposite side of the tent from her blankets. Salamander’s lay flopped on its back, arms outstretched. He drifted over it, then dropped. The flame that encased him shrank, dwindled, turned invisible. The body below sat up, its aura glowing gold, though a fair bit less brightly than it had been before.

Salamander got up, staggered over to her physical body, and dragged it back to the blankets. He laid her out like a corpse—though the silver cord hung unbroken though dangerously thin—in order to minimize her pain when she returned to her flesh. Dallandra slid down the cord, felt her consciousness slip free of the body of light, then fell gratefully into the physical world. A click, a rushy hiss, and she was back, aching in every muscle and tendon, with Salamander leaning over her.

“My thanks,” she whispered. “You saved my life.”

He smiled, too exhausted to speak.

From outside she heard a voice—Cal’s voice—yelling and threatening Neb in two languages with vile things if he didn’t step aside at once. Dallandra staggered to her feet and managed to walk to the tent door. She flung it aside to find Calonderiel grabbing Neb by the throat.

“Stop it!” she said. “He’s just following my orders.”

“Thank every god in the sky!” Cal said and let Neb go. “You’re alive!”

Neb staggered back, rubbing his throat. With a shock Dallandra realized that half the Westfolk camp was standing around gawking and that the other half was running to see what the disturbance was.

“We were going to stop the banadar from killing him,” one of the archers said, pointing to Neb. “We’d just got here when you came out.”

“I see,” Dallandra said. “My thanks. Why don’t you all go away again? There’s nothing wrong anymore. Neb, bless you! Come in, and Cal, you, too.”

With Dallandra safe, Calonderiel turned apologetic. He insisted on arranging the softest cushions for Neb to sit upon and poured him mead in a silver goblet to ease the ache in the scribe’s throat. That done, he rummaged through tent bags until he found a slab of honeycake, purloined from the gwerbret’s wedding, which he divided between Salamander and Dallandra. She bit into it greedily.

“I’ll fetch water,” Calonderiel said.

Dallandra was too busy stuffing the cake into her mouth to answer. She and Salamander both needed to anchor their consciousness firmly to their bodies, and food was the best way to do so. Neb sat sipping his mead and watching them with a stunned expression. No doubt his daydreams about mighty dweomer workings hadn’t included raw hunger. Calonderiel returned with a waterskin and filled more goblets all round. When Dallandra held out her sticky hands, he squeezed the waterskin and washed them clean, but he handed the water to Salamander and let him clean his own hands.

“A thousand thanks, my love,” Dallandra said in Deverrian. “You’ve been around dweomermasters for a very long time, haven’t you?” She managed to smile. “Do you realize that Salamander saved my life?”

“I got that impression,” Cal said. “I was walking up to the tent when I heard you scream, and Ebañy start cursing. Then Neb and I heard the sound of some heavy thing flopping like a caught fish on a riverbank.”

“I somehow knew that the noise came from you.” Neb’s voice rasped and croaked. “So I told the banadar that your body was suffering some kind of repercussion from whatever you were doing out there.”

“But he wouldn’t let me by him.” Calonderiel looked honestly contrite. “My apologies, Neb.”

Neb smiled weakly and had another sip of mead.

“As for me, I couldn’t hold you down,” Salamander said, “so I went out after you.”

“And a cursed good thing you did,” Calonderiel muttered. “I was afraid Dalla would break her neck.”

Dallandra drank another sip of water. She was wondering how much Calonderiel actually understood of what had just happened. Even more, she wondered if she wanted him to understand.

“Dalla, what was that construct?” Salamander went on. “I caught a glimpse of it before it collapsed. It didn’t look like a normal astral gate to me.”

“It wasn’t,” Dallandra said. “I’m not sure what it was, frankly. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Do you think Govvin made it?” Salamander said.

“I don’t know for certain, but I doubt it very much.”

Salamander turned slightly and began staring at one of the tent bags hanging on the wall, but his eyes moved as if they were following some living thing. His skin was far too pale, his hair plastered down with sweat. Dark blood was gathering under the skin below his eyes.

“What are you seeing?” Dallandra said.

“Govvin. He’s up and walking through the ward. Some of the priests are following him.” Salamander paused, his mouth slack, for a long moment. “Ah, they’re leaving the dun now through the postern gate.” Suddenly he laughed, a small exhausted sound. “He’s setting a guard over the remaining cattle.”

“If he’s doing somewhat as mundane as that,” Dallandra said. “He can’t have the slightest idea of what just happened on the etheric above his wretched temple.”

“Just so.” Salamander paused for a yawn. “Which means he can’t have made the thing. I doubt me if the man who did build it realized you were destroying it either, or he’d have come charging up to defend it.”

“I don’t understand,” Neb broke in. “Do you mean this dark dweomerman’s not in the temple?”

“I’m guessing he’s not,” Salamander said. “We don’t know, unfortunately.”

“True spoken,” Dallandra said. “We’ll have to keep a watch on that wretched temple, though. If he does come back, I want a good look at him. He must have been staying in the temple. Why else build above it? Let’s hope he returns before the siege is over.”

Calonderiel growled, a whisper of frustrated rage. “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger like this again.”

“I don’t want you putting yourself in danger by riding to battle either, but will that stop you?”

Calonderiel opened his mouth and shut it again without speaking.

“Neb?” Dallandra turned to him. “The gwerbret’s going to send messages back to Cengarn on the morrow. Write Branna and tell her to be on her guard every moment of every day.”

“I will.” Neb’s voice seemed a little less raw. “You know, you told me that I shouldn’t rush ahead with dweomer. I didn’t want to be patient, but truly, now I see what you mean. I don’t understand what happened to you, but one thing’s clear. There’s danger in working dweomer, more than I ever thought possible.”

“True spoken,” Dallandra said. “Tell her that, too. Thanks be to all the gods that she can read.”

With Ridvar on campaign, overseeing the life of the dun fell to his lady. Each morning Drwmigga sat in Ridvar’s chair at the head of the table of honor by the dragon hearth. Keeping her company there were Galla and her two serving women, Branna and Solla, as well, of course, as the four women Drwmigga had brought with her from her father’s dun. Drwmigga would lean back in her chair and smile at everyone, her large eyes as placid as always, as the various servitors and servants came forward to listen to her orders of the day. She tended to agree with everyone and grant their requests with a minimum of discussion.

“I’m still learning the ways of the rhan,” she remarked several times. “Dear Solla, you’ve been such a great help to me.”

Solla would smile in return but say nothing. At first Branna thought that Drwmigga was pouring vinegar on Solla’s wounds, but finally she realized that Drwmigga truly didn’t understand her sister-in-law’s situation. After that, Branna found herself more and more tempted to respond to Drwmigga’s comments with a moo.

Five days after the army rode out, Ridvar’s first messenger arrived. Branna, who was up in her chamber, heard a strange sound outside, an odd thwacking noise, as if someone were cleaning an enormous tapestry by beating it with an equally enormous stick. She went to her window and leaned out. Down below in the ward, a scattering of servants had stopped whatever tasks they were about. They stood still, heads tilted back, staring at the sky. All of a sudden a maidservant screamed aloud and went careening across the ward to duck into the great hall. The others stood as if frozen for a brief moment, then rushed after her. The dun dogs began howling, running this way and that across the ward before they too sought shelter inside.

Branna looked up to see a dragon circling the dun. In the bright light of afternoon her coppery-black scales gleamed with a greenish undertone as she dropped lower, aiming for the flat roof of the main broch. Without thought or hesitation Branna called out, “Arzosah! Arzosah Sothy Lorezohaz!”

“I am that,” the dragon called back. “I’ll just land.”

Branna rushed out of her chamber and ran, panting a little, up the stairs to the trapdoor that led to the roof. She climbed up the ladder and emerged into sunlight to find the dragon settled, her huge wings neatly folded, her tail tucked round her haunches. Yet despite her comfortable posture, reminiscent of a hearthside cat, under her scales muscles bulged, and when she yawned, she displayed teeth as long as Branna’s arms.

“I take it Dallandra told you my name,” the dragon said. “So you must be Lady Branna.”

“I am, indeed.” Branna felt as if someone had just hit her sharply in the face. How had she known that name? Dalla had never mentioned that she knew a dragon, much less the beast’s name. She fell back on ingrained courtesy. “It gladdens my heart to meet you. It’s a great honor.”

“My thanks, and the same to you, I’m sure. I’ve come with messages from the gwerbret. If you could just untie them for me?” Arzosah raised her head to reveal a leather pouch hanging from a strap around her neck. “I offered to bring them, just for somewhat to do. Sitting around and watching an army hold a siege turns out to be tedious in the extreme.”

“I imagine it would be, truly. Here, let me just undo this buckle, and you’ll be free of that strap.”

“My thanks.”

The strap had been pieced together out of a good many belts and bits of tack to make it long enough to go round the dragon’s neck. Unbuckling it required ducking under Arzosah’s head, which she obligingly raised high to give Branna room. Branna had the strap off and the pouch of message tubes safely in hand before she realized how dangerous the job might have been. She stepped back and glanced down at the ward to find it full of gawkers, fort guard, servants, and Aunt Galla, leaning heavily upon Lady Solla as if she’d nearly fainted.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning for the answers,” Arzosah said. “Now listen carefully, because this is truly important. One of the letters is sealed with Prince Voran’s wyvern. Lord Oth is to read that one first and silently. It will explain why.”

“Well and good, then. I’ll tell him.”

“Good. Now, I’m off to hunt my supper. You’d best go back inside, though, before I leave. My wings tend to whip up a powerful gust of air.”

“No doubt. May you have good fortune on the hunt!”

“What a polite child you are! I do like that in a hatch-ling.”

For want of an answer, Branna curtsied, then wrapped the strap and pouch around her waist several times to leave her hands free for the climb down the ladder. Lord Oth and two men from the fort guard were waiting for her on the landing below. The men bowed to her in honest awe.

“Ye gods!” Oth murmured. “You’ve got ice in your veins, Lady Branna.”

“I don’t know what came over me,” Branna said. “But she does seem courtly in her own way.”

From above, wingbeats sounded, as huge as thunder. In a rush of air the dragon flew off, and as her shadow passed over the open trap, darkness fell for a moment. Oth wiped cold sweat off his face with his shirt sleeve, and one of the guards turned more than a little pale.

“Here are the messages, my lord.” Branna unbuckled the strap and held them out.

Oth took them with shaking hands. As they went downstairs, the two guards preceded them, allowing Branna to repeat Arzosah’s instructions concerning the letter with the wyvern seal in privacy.

“Very well.” Oth seemed surprised. “Let’s stop here on this landing.”

Oth looked through the messages, found the correct silver tube, and broke the seal. He shook out the parchment within, and as he read, his surprise turned into a certain grim look about the eyes. “I see.” Oth rolled up the message and shoved it back into the tube. “Let’s go on down.”

The great hall was mobbed. Everyone crowded inside to hear the news, servants, pages, fort guards, and noble-born ladies alike. Branna made her way through the whispering crowd to the table of honor, where the noble-born had gathered, and sat down next to her aunt, who turned to her, tried to speak, then gave it up with a shrug.
I’ll be in for a talking-to later,
Branna thought,
on the subject of not consorting with dragons.
The thought made her giggle until Galla silenced her with a black look.