The Gold Falcon (68 page)

Secured by the rope and Neb’s weight above him, Matyc could push off and use his legs to clamber up the rough stonework. When the boy reached the top, Neb hauled him between the crenels over the edge to safety. Down below the watching Westfolk broke out in cheers. Matyc freed himself from the noose and flung the rope to the slates.

“Will I truly be safe?” he said.

“Of course,” Neb said. “If anyone tries treachery, they’ll have your grandfather to argue with.”

Matto managed a brief smile. “No one argues with my gran and wins.” He let the smile fade. “Is my mam safe?”

“She is, and your sister with her. They’re at Cengarn with your grandmother.”

“That’s splendid.” Matyc was staring down at the men in the ward so far below. “You have my thanks. I—” His voice broke suddenly, and he covered his face with both hands. He began sobbing so hard his shoulders heaved.

Neb found a reasonably clean rag in his brigga pocket and handed it to Matto. “Here,” he said, “I know the world looks black and ugly now, but in a bit, it will brighten again.”

“Never.” His voice choked on phlegm and tears. “My da—”

“We all have to die sometime, Matto. Your father died fighting for the goddess he loved. He had an honorable death, far more honorable than most men.”

“There’s somewhat you don’t know.” Matto’s tears continued to run as he stammered out the words. “Da wanted to kill me. He tried to kill me. He said it would be better than letting Vandar’s spawn get hold of me. He drew his sword, and he tried to grab me, but I got away. I ran upstairs, and the battle started, and he didn’t follow me. I didn’t know where else to go, so I just hid.”

“And then you came out onto the roof?”

“I did.” Matto paused to choke back tears. “That’s when I watched him die. I could see the fight.”

“Did it sadden your heart when he died?”

Matto nodded. His tears had stopped at last; he wiped his face on the rag and blew his nose.

“I saw my father die, too,” Neb went on. “He was very ill, you see, from a flux in his bowels.”

“Oh. Then you do know what it feels like.”

“I do.”

“But he didn’t try to kill you.”

“He didn’t. That’s going to be a hard thing to think about. Tell your Gran and ask his help.”

“I will, then. I’m so tired.” Matto handed the rag back. “None of us could sleep last night, knowing what was coming.”

“Well, tonight you’ll sleep in your grandfather’s tent and be safe. Come along now. We’ll go down and speak with Prince Voran.”

They found the prince still outside, talking with Tieryn Cadryc and Gwerbret Ridvar near the door to the broch. Neb hesitated, unwilling to disturb the noble-born, but Voran gave him a weary sort of smile and waved them over. Matyc ran to his grandfather, who laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him close.

“Splendid!” the prince said. “It gladdens my heart that you could talk the lad down. You’ve done a good thing this day.”

“My thanks, Your Highness,” Neb said, “but it was Gerran who put me in mind to do it.”

“Then he’s done a good thing, too.” Voran turned his attention to Matyc, who stood stiffly at Cadryc’s side. Apparently he had no intention of kneeling to his captor.

“Very well, Lord Matyc,” the prince said. “Do you forswear your father’s rebellion against his rightful overlord?”

Matyc hesitated, but a glance at Cadryc seemed to make up the lad’s mind. “I do, Your Highness,” Matyc said.

“Do you give up all claim to this demesne, here before witnesses of your own rank and beyond?”

“I do. I’d rather be a silver dagger than keep it.”

Neb glanced at Ridvar, standing nearby with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and found the gwerbret’s face utterly expressionless.

“I think we can make you some provision better than the long road,” Voran said. “Very well, Lord Matyc. You’re now my hostage with my personal vow of safety. The scribe here can write out a formal quitclaim to the demesne for you to sign or seal later. Does that suit you?”

“It does, Your Highness, but I don’t think anyone’s got the coin to ransom me out.”

“We’ll worry about all that later,” Voran said. “For now, go with your grandfather. He’ll stand surety for you.”

“Coryn’s here,” Cadryc said, “and you’ve got a new cousin by marriage, young Clae, so you’ll not lack for company. Here, do you realize it was your cousin’s betrothed who just saved you?”

“I did, Gran.” Matyc turned to Neb. “My thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Neb said.

Matyc bowed to Prince Voran; then with one last glance at the unspeaking Ridvar, he allowed Cadryc to lead him out of the dun.

 

With Matyc safe, there remained the question of Lord Honelg’s mother, Lady Varigga. Salamander had expected her to take shelter in Alshandra’s shrine. Since she hadn’t, Salamander went into the broch to search for the lady. On an upper floor he found the chamber that must have been the women’s hall, because it sported one faded tapestry and a threadbare Bardek carpet as well as a pair of embroidery frames with half-finished work still in them. Varigga, however, wasn’t there.

With a cold feeling around his heart Salamander began to search the bed chambers. Sure enough, he found her at last in her little dowager’s nest at the top of the tower. She was sprawled on the bed in a drying soak of blood, a red-streaked dagger lying beneath her flaccid right hand. She’d slit her wrists.

“Bearing the last witness.” Salamander felt as if the words were choking him. “I think me we’ve discovered what that means.” He walked over to the corpse and closed its eyes. “May you find peace, my lady. I beg you, forgive me for turning traitor to your hospitality.”

Since none of the Westfolk had been wounded, Dallandra had been helping the chirurgeons with the Deverry men. She forced her mind to concentrate on the work, to see only the work, to stay stubbornly on the physical plane and never open up the Sight. Yet despite her efforts, she was always aware of the dead. Their etheric doubles floated through the hall, or hovered over their bodies, or clung to those of their friends who still lived. They were desperate to be seen, to be recognized by the living in the vain hope that somehow or other, they would wake from a dream and find that they still lived themselves.

There was nothing she could do for them. She’d tried to help Deverry men before, after other battles, but none of the dead would believe what she told them or follow her up to the river of life and death and the meadows of pale white flowers along its shores. Eventually they would cross it whether they followed her or not, but they would have spared themselves much grief and panic if only they could have brought themselves to listen to a voice speaking from the center of a silver flame. At times she considered trying to build a second body of light, one in human form, but it would have taken her a great deal of effort and just possibly have made her first, preferred form unstable.

As well as Warryc, two of Ridvar’s men were dead, and six others had suffered wounds or, in one case, a broken arm from slipping and falling on blood-soaked ground. The massive casualties came from Honelg’s ranks. His sworn riders had all died as their vows demanded, but most of the servants and villagers had lived through the battle. Not all of the Westfolk archers had aimed to kill men who wore no armor and had barely a weapon to defend themselves. Dallandra knew how to cut an arrow out of a wound in a way that would minimize the damage rather than making it worse. She had an eager audience when she shared that knowledge.

The chirurgeons had finished doing what they could when Gwerbret Ridvar walked in. He found his own riders and spoke to each one, kneeling down from time to time to clasp their hands and thank them. When he saw the two dead riders, he raised his hands in the air and prayed over their bodies, just a few brief words, but it made the wounded smile in thanks to see their friends honored. Ridvar also came over to the chirurgeons to thank them personally for aiding his men.

“Tell me,” the gwerbret said. “Do any of you recognize Raldd? He was a groom, and he’s the traitor who rode ahead to warn this dun.”

No one did—a groom was beneath the notice of learned men like chirurgeons and fighting men as well.

“One of the pages might,” a chirurgeon said. “They were helping with the horses back at Dun Cengarn.”

“Ask Clae,” Dallandra said. “He’s the one who spotted Raldd and gave us what warning we had.”

“Indeed?” Ridvar said. “I never heard that. Well, I’ll have to thank the lad. Who’s his father?”

Dallandra considered the question—doubtless Ridvar was assuming that Clae was the usual sort of page, the son of a noble-born man. To tell the truth, that he was only a scribe’s brother, would make Ridvar dismiss him. “He’s a younger son, Your Grace, and his father’s dead,” she said. “Tieryn Cadryc took him in.”

“Ah. I’ll send someone to speak to Cadryc, then.”

With a wave all round the young gwerbret strode out of the hall. Dallandra found a bucket of reasonably clean water and began washing the blood and bits of flesh off her hands and arms. She was almost done when Salamander came down the staircase to the great hall. He looked so ill that at first she feared he’d been wounded himself.

“No, no, fear not, O princess of powers perilous,” Salamander said in Elvish. “I just made another ghastly discovery. Lady Varigga killed herself upstairs. I don’t know if she saw the combat twixt her son and Gerran. Did you know about that?”

“One of the chirurgeons told me.”

In but a few moments they both heard more, when Neb and Clae came into the great hall together, shepherded by one of the gwerbret’s riders. Clae clung to his brother’s hand, and his face turned pale at the sight of the dead men, but otherwise he was surprisingly calm as he walked along, looking at each one.

“There he is.” Clae pointed at the corpse of a sandy-haired lad who couldn’t have been much older than Neb. An arrow had pierced his throat. “That’s Raldd.”

“Ah, horseshit!” the soldier said. “I’d been hoping we’d taken him alive. I wanted a word with the lad before the gwerbret hanged him.”

“Can I leave now?” Clae said.

“Of course, lad,” the soldier gave him a grim smile. “You’ve done well.”

“Wait for me outside,” Neb said. “We’ll talk for a bit.”

Clae walked slowly from the great hall, his head held high.
He’s going to grow up into one of them,
Dallandra thought, and the thought brought her close to tears.

“I wanted to tell you somewhat quickly,” Neb said. “Honelg tried to kill Matto before he took refuge in the shrine.”

“He what?” Salamander said. “Oh, by the Black Sun herself!”

“It’s ghastly, inn’t?” Neb nodded in his direction. “He told the boy that death would be better than falling into the hands of Vandar’s spawn.”

“Oh.” Salamander paused, and for a moment he looked aged as well as ill. “Apparently the pity I’ve been feeling for him is misplaced.”

“I’d say it was.” Neb turned to go, then glanced back. “I’d best go see how Clae fares. We can talk later.”

Together, Salamander and Dallandra followed him outside to the cleaner air of the muddy ward. Here and there a few of Ridvar’s men were picking up dropped weapons and tossing them onto a pile down near the gates. The Westfolk men were hunting for arrows that they could salvage, but they scorned the enemy’s rough-made bows. Prince Voran’s men were leading cows out of the stables, and servants staggered by with the sacks of grain and armloads of hay to feed this living booty. Later, she supposed, the servants would strip the dun of the rest of its livestock. The victors would eat well tonight.

“We should make sure that Arzosah and Rori get a couple of hogs,” Salamander said. “Where are the dragons, by the by?”

“I don’t know,” Dallandra said. “I’ve not had a moment outside till now.”

They left the dun and walked down the twisty maze of earthworks to the open ground below. The stink of a large encampment met them, but at least, Dallandra reflected, it didn’t smell of fresh blood, unlike the great hall. Judging by the silver light behind the clouds, the sun hung past zenith but still well above the horizon.

“It’s so odd,” she said. “It was all over so quickly.”

“Deverry battles tend to be like that,” Salamander said. “I have this nasty feeling that Zakh Gral is going to be an entirely different affair.”

“Me, too. Unfortunately.”

“But let us leave opening that sack of troubles to another day.”

“Yes. Tending the wounded is more than enough trouble for me for one afternoon.”

“I meant to tell you,” Salamander went on, “I heard that Ridvar is going to take the prisoners back to Cengarn and have them drawn and hanged as rebels.”

“He what?” For a moment Dallandra couldn’t speak. She took a deep breath. “Are you sure that’s true?”

“I heard it from Ridvar’s captain. The gwerbret wants to kill them publicly. He thinks that it will scare any of his townsfolk who believe in Alshandra into giving her up.”