The Gold Falcon (70 page)

“Not truly. Just as you deserve, I’d say. Get up, Lord Gerran.”

Gerran never moved, merely stared open-mouthed.

“Excellent!” Voran rubbed his hands together like a merchant. “I’ll send a messenger down to Dun Deverry with instructions for the College of Heralds. They’ll draw up the necessary documents with the proper seals and suchlike. Um, you can get up now, Gerran.”

“My thanks, Your Highness, for your excellent suggestion.” Gwerbret Ridvar managed a smile at last. “I wager I can guess what name Gerran’s going to choose for his new clan.”

Still kneeling, Gerran stared at him with stunned eyes. Cadryc stepped forward to break the moment.

“We all can, eh?” Cadryc grabbed Gerran’s hand to yank him up. “The Falcon, isn’t it, lad?”

“It is.” Gerran staggered to his feet, but he continued to look as dazed as if the gwerbret had struck him on the side of the head rather than ennobled him. “Unless there’s already a clan by that name down in Deverry.”

“You know, I think there was once,” Prince Voran said, “and it came to some sort of bad end. The heralds will know, of course. But there’s naught wrong with using the Red Falcon, for instance, or what about the Gold Falcon? The latter has a better ring to it.”

“So it does,” Gerran was whispering like a man who’s just woken up from a sound sleep. “I—I—ye gods!”

“But curse it all!” Cadryc mugged a long face. “This means I’ll have to get myself a new captain, doesn’t it? Ah, well, there’s no spring rain without mud, eh?”

This time even Ridvar joined in the general round of laughter. Salamander, however, found himself thinking of Lady Adranna. He was the only man there, he supposed, who was wondering how she’d take the news that she’d lost not only her husband, but her home.

Men on horseback instead of a dragon brought a report of the battle to Cengarn. When everyone had assembled in the great hall, Lord Oth told Drwmigga, and thus the other women as well, that apparently the dragons had gone off on some business of their own.

“They
are
beasts, after all,” Oth said. “I’d imagine they’ve gone back to the wild. They may have a nest to tend or suchlike.”

Perhaps,
Branna thought,
but they’re not as beastlike as all that.

Besides the official reports, there were letters for Adranna and Branna, but while Branna pulled the seal off her note from Neb and read it eagerly, Adranna let hers lie unread in her lap and watched Oth, who was mumbling a word here and there as he scanned through a long missive from the gwerbret. Finally, he looked up with a smile.

“Good news, my lady!” he said to Adranna. “Your son is alive and well and riding home with your father.”

Adranna allowed herself a quick smile and a flash of joy in her eyes. “And my husband?” she said calmly.

Oth arranged a solemn expression. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“And the dun?”

“Attainted and given to a new lord.”

“Who is?”

“By the gods!” Oth was looking at the missive again. “Prince Voran’s ennobled Gerran and made him the head of a new clan. It’ll be the Gold Falcon!”

“Better him than some other man.” Adranna shoved back her chair and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, my ladies?”

“Of course,” Drwmigga said with a wave of her hand. “But wouldn’t you—”

Adranna was already gone, striding across the hall toward the staircase.

“She can’t have loved that horrid man.” Galla stood, curtsied to Drwmigga, then ran after her daughter.

Branna dispensed with the curtsy and merely ran. She caught up with Galla and Adranna on the landing. The three of them went up to Adranna’s chamber, where Midda was sitting with little Trenni, amusing the child with a game of Carnoic. When her mother came into the room, Trenni looked up from the board.

“Trenni, my love,” Adranna said, “I’ve got the best news in the world. Matto’s alive and coming home with Gran.”

“That gladdens my heart,” Trenni said, but she looked oddly solemn. “Is Da dead?”

“He is,” Adranna said.

“Good.” Trenni turned away and began to study the board with determined concentration.

Adranna had gone pale, and for a moment she swayed where she stood. Branna caught her cousin’s elbow and steadied her. “Let’s go to your mother’s chamber,” she murmured. A nod was the only answer Adranna had the strength to give.

Galla led the way to her chamber. Once inside, Branna barred the door. Adranna sank into a chair and covered her face with both hands. Her shoulders shook, and Branna assumed she was weeping, but in a moment she realized that Adranna was laughing and struggling to stop herself. Galla hovered near her but said nothing. Finally Adranna gave up the futile effort and looked up. Her face had gone dead-pale, and she laughed and laughed in a series of little choking chirps while her hands shook like those of an old woman with the palsy.

“Good, she said.” Adranna forced out the words between coughs of laughter. “His own daughter. Good, she said.”

On the little table stood a half-empty flask of Bardek wine. Branna grabbed the pottery cup from the washbasin and filled it with wine, then forced it between her cousin’s shaking hands. Galla stood behind her daughter and began to rub her shoulders in a slow, soothing rhythm. Adranna managed to drink a few sips, and slowly her laughter stopped. She took one deep breath, then finished the wine in a long gulp.

“I don’t suppose I ever truly loved him,” Adranna said, “but I thought he was a better man than the others I might marry. Once we found our goddess, I felt I’d made the right choice for a certainty, and at times I thought I did love him. But if I ever did, I stopped when he wouldn’t let Matto leave the dun with me and Trenni.”

“In Neb’s letter,” Branna said, “it says that Honelg tried to kill Matto. He said it would be better than his being taken captive.”

“What?” Galla went white around the mouth.

“I’m not surprised.” Adranna held out the wine cup. “It gladdens my heart to know that he’s dead and Matto alive.”

Branna refilled the cup for her, then perched on the side of the bed. With a deep sigh of her own, Galla sat down in the other chair. Branna realized that they were both watching Adranna as if she were an invalid who might at any moment go into convulsions or manifest some other alarming symptom.

“What happened to that other letter?” Galla said. “The one Oth gave you.”

“Here.” Adranna pulled the silver tube from her kirtle and tossed it to Branna. “You can read it, if you would. I don’t even recognize the seal.”

“It’s a rose,” Branna said. “I’ll wager it’s from Prince Dar or Dallandra.”

It was indeed from the Westfolk prince by the hand of his own scribe, whose letters were shaky, Branna noticed, not half as nice as her Neb’s. The note, however, was the very soul of courtliness, expressing sympathy for the lady in her bereavement. He went on to say that he’d “taken charge of some jewelry which was found in the women’s hall, the embroideries therein as well, and some clothing and a doll that seems to belong to your daughter. I shall bring it all with us to hand over to you in Dun Cengarn.”

“What a decent man!” Adranna said, and for a moment a few tears ran. She irritably wiped them away on the back of her hand.

“He is that,” Branna said. “It gladdens my heart that you’ll get your jewelry back.”

“Such as it is.” Adranna smiled briefly. “But it has meaning for me.”

Branna stopped herself from asking the question that nearly forced itself out of her mouth,
is it a symbol of your goddess?
So far they’d managed to avoid the subject of Alshandra, and Branna decided that they’d best continue to do so until Adranna had recovered further. She busied herself with rolling up the letter and slipping it back into its silver tube.

“Do you want to sleep, dearest?” Galla said.

“I do,” Adranna said. “But, Mama, can I sleep here in your chamber?” Her voice sounded like a child’s, high and weak.

“Of course you may! And I’ll sit here with you, too.”

Branna laid the message tube onto the table, then left them alone.

It was much later when Lady Galla came to Branna’s chamber with the news that Adranna had woken from her nap and seemed more her old self again. She’d gone to her own chamber, where she and Trenni were having a long talk.

“That’s the best thing for the child,” Galla said. “There’s little that you or I can do. Her comfort has to come from her mother.”

“It seems to me, Aunt Galla,” Branna said, “that Trenni doesn’t truly need comforting.”

“Not about her father, certainly. What a sensible child she is! But they did lose everything else they had, except, of course, for what dear Prince Daralanteriel is bringing them. How kind of him!”

“In his note Neb said that he’d snagged more of the booty, too. He’s got a plate of colored glass and a silver cup he’s bringing for Adranna.”

“Excellent! If the plate is the one I think it is, that was a gift upon their wedding from the old gwerbret, Ridvar’s father.” Galla sighed, then suddenly smiled. “But I must say, the news about our Gerran warmed my heart!”

“All your scheming’s finally borne fruit, has it?”

Galla laughed. “How perceptive you are, dear,” she said. “So. There’ll be a new clan, the Gold Falcon. Or wait, not a new one—there must have been another Falcon clan at one time, if Gerran needs to distinguish his with the ‘gold’ in the name.”

“There was,” Branna said. “My father’s bard sang a ballad about them now and then. It’s about a brother and sister who were far too fond of each other, if you take my meaning.”

“There’s rather a lot of ballads about that. In the old days duns were so far apart. I don’t suppose you could find a lot of men of your own rank to fall in love with.”

“Most likely not,” Branna went on. “According to the ballad, this particular pair were named Brangwen and Gerraent. How odd! It almost sounds like me and Gerran, and here I never noticed that before! But anyway she was supposed to marry a prince of the realm. Her brother dishonored her first, so she drowned herself.”

“What happened to the brother?”

“The prince killed him in single combat, and so the clan died for want of more heirs.” All at once Branna felt oddly puzzled. “That’s not right. I mean, I must be remembering some other song. I thought that Gerraent killed his friend over the sister, and then his friend’s brother killed him. Or suchlike. Blast! These old songs all start sounding alike when you’re trying to remember them.”

“So many of them share the same tune, is why. Well, either way, let’s hope that the new Falcon clan has a better wyrd than the old one did.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will. That ghastly tale happened long long ago, after all. I’m just so pleased for our Gerran.” Branna paused to give her aunt a grin. “Now we need to get him the right wife, and I think that she just might be your new serving woman.”

“You know, how odd!” Galla returned the smile. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

The army rode back to Dun Cengarn around noon on yet another rainy day. The summer storms so common in the northlands had returned with a vengeance. Despite the weather, Branna wanted to go down to the dun gates to welcome Neb home, but Aunt Galla bade her a very firm nay.

“I shan’t have you hanging around the ward to wait for the men like a camp follower,” Galla said.

“Well, truly,” Branna said. “I suppose it wouldn’t look very courtly of me.”

All of the dun’s women, from Drwmigga down to the lowest scullery lass, went to the great hall to wait. Lord Oth joined Drwmigga to consult with her about a victory feast. The wedding had quite literally eaten up an alarming share of the dun’s stored provisions.

“One of the messages mentioned that they’re bringing a couple of hogs with them,” Oth said, “and some cows, so we’ll have meat. Drink is another thing entirely. There’s ale, and some Bardek wine, but not a drop of mead left in the dun.”

“Then it will have to be meat and ale,” Drwmigga said, “and what bread the cooks can bake at this late hour. I do wish my lord had sent off the messengers earlier.”

“So do I,” Oth said with a sigh. “Well, I’ll go consult with the head cook right now.”

It was some while before the women heard the army returning in a burst of shouting and the sound of a great many horses clattering into the ward. Drwmigga rose and beckoned to the others to follow her as she hurried out of the great hall to welcome home her lord and his royal guests. Branna noticed Adranna lingering behind, then turning and heading for the stairs.

“Let her go,” Galla said. “There’s no joy in this for her.”

“There’s not,” Branna said. “And I’d just as soon she didn’t have to see mine.”

Branna had something of a wait, however, before she could greet Neb. The army filled the ward in waves—the royalty and their escorts first, then the noble-born, rode in, dismounted, turned their mounts over to the pages and servants, greeted their womenfolk and the yapping, milling dogs before the commoners could even gain the ward. At last she saw Neb, leading his horse in through the gates behind a slow-moving wagon. She waved madly; he didn’t see her; her patience broke. She dodged through the horses, dogs, and men and ran to him. With a shout of wordless joy he dropped his horse’s reins and flung his arms around her, drawing her so close she could barely breathe.