The Gold Falcon (38 page)

Salamander woke with a start and sat up, stretching, grinning at her. “Ye gods!” he said. “You can’t have flown all this way so fast.”

“I didn’t, no,” Dalla said. “I took the secret paths, and we’ll have to go back the same way. I brought some food.”

“May the Star Goddesses bless you! I’m starved.”

Yet, being Salamander, he washed in the river and put on the clean shirt before he ate.

Dallandra decided to wait for the moon to finish rising before they attempted the return journey. Moonrise sends waves of energy ahead of it, making etheric journeys even more dangerous than they normally are. While they sat by the dark-rushing water, Salamander told her about his travels in more detail, including the position of the fort. He scried, as well, and was able to report that the river by which they sat was indeed the same one that led eventually to Zakh Gral.

“That name, by the way,” Dalla said, “means the red fort in their language.”

“And red correlates to iron, strength, and manly virtue,” Salamander said, “or so the novice lore I was learning has it.”

“It’s an odd name for that temple, then, isn’t it? One that exists to spread the truth about a new goddess.”

“Indeed. I suspect that Lakanza and her holy women are being cozened by the rakzanir on their so-called holy council. This business of Vandar’s spawn—how convenient for men who desperately need pasture for their horses!”

“I had the same sour thought.”

“And a slender excuse for killing looks fat to the Horsekin, just as it does to the Roundear lords.” He paused, considering something. “Yet their peoples prosper, and ours dwindle. Why is that?”

“There’s not enough of us for breeding stock. If the day comes when the Roundears and Horsekin stop dropping litters, they might become a lot more peaceful.”

“Let us pray for that day, then. But you know, I had a thought, when I was riding west with Rocca.”

“Just one?” Dalla grinned at him.

Salamander ignored the interruption. “And that was, we know that some refugees reached the Southern Isles. Could there be others who fled west? If so, they doubtless think themselves the only, lonely survivors, much as both we and the island refugees did.”

“You know, that’s a very interesting question.”

“Some of the younger men might be tempted into going to find the answer, especially if we can get a sea captain from the islands interested in sailing west.”

“You’re quite right. Not this summer, though.”

“Alas, not this summer. We have a rather large unpleasantness to deal with first.”

“Unpleasantness. I like how you put that.” Dallandra stood up, gazing off to the east, where the moon hung solidly above the dark horizon. “Well, let’s get back. The sooner we get on the way to Cengarn the better, and the camp will be worrying about us.”

“About you, anyway.” Salamander scrambled up to join her. “Let me put the evidence I brought into that sack of yours. The gwerbret’s going to have to admit that this plate, at least, isn’t something you can buy in the marketplace.”

“Let’s hope so. Now—stick close to me. In fact, let me take your hand. This way of traveling can be tricky, so don’t let your mind wander. Think of Valandario. She’s waiting for us, and she’ll be my focus. Build up an image of her.”

“Very well, O princess of powers perilous. I just hope my humble skills will be sufficient to—”

“Stop babbling and concentrate!”

Despite his fears, Dallandra found the road back easily enough, and he managed to walk it with her. After what seemed like a bare mile’s journey, they stepped down from the shimmering blue rocks to find themselves in sight of the elven camp, just waking in the dawn of a new day. As they hurried toward the tents, the horse guards spotted them and shouted a greeting. Others came running from the camp, with Zandro in the lead. He rushed up to his father and threw his arms around him so forcefully that he nearly knocked Salamander over.

“Easy, lad!” Salamander said, smiling. “Your poor old Da’s come up a bit lame.”

Zandro bared his teeth in a smile and begin sniffing Salamander like a dog, his nose working, his eyes distant as he moved up his father’s arm to his shoulder and hair.

“And what is all this?” Salamander said. “What do you smell there?”

Zandro considered the question for a moment. “Home,” he said finally. It was the first time Zandro had ever answered a question with a clear meaningful word.

“Good lad!” Salamander said. “Do you mean I’m home now?”

Zandro shook his head. “Blue home,” he said.

“He means the etheric, I think,” Dallandra joined in. “Odd. I never thought of it having a scent before.”

“No more did I,” Salamander said. “But he’s the one who’d know.”

By then Dallandra felt too drained from the dweomerworking to worry about Zandro or anyone else, for that matter. She left Salamander to tell his tale to whomever wanted to hear it and went to her tent, where she flopped down on her blankets and fell asleep with barely a moment’s thought.

Dallandra woke in midafternoon to find a council of war in progress. Three members of the alar had taken the children, both normal and changeling, away to play in a meadow out of earshot, but everyone else had gathered in front of Dar’s tent. As she walked up, she noticed that Salamander was still speaking, but after a few more sentences he finished, nodded toward the prince, and sat down beside Devaberiel. Those assembled began talking among themselves, in whispers at first, then louder, until they sounded like the roar of a high tide on a graveled beach. Calonderiel got up and raised his arms for silence. After a brief flurry of talk, the assembly quieted to let the banadar speak.

“So now you all know what Ebañy told us earlier.” Cal defined this “us” with a sweep of his arm, taking in Dar, Meranaldar, Devaberiel, and Maelaber. “Here’s what we decided. I’ll choose a squad of archers, and we’ll take Dallandra with us, too, to guard the prince on his ride to Cengarn. Ebañy will come along, of course. As I understand it, some of the Deverry lords along the border will support us when we put this matter before the gwerbret. We’re hoping he’ll send messages to the high king.”

“He’s practically promised to do that,” Salamander put in. “Tieryn Cadryc will make sure he holds to the promise.”

“Good,” Cal went on. “We’ve got to destroy that fort, no matter what it costs us. If our Deverry allies desert us, we’ll have to call for a general muster of the People.”

The assembly agreed, but with a long sigh of regret. Heads nodded yes, but no one cheered, no one leaped to their feet to shout their agreement. Here and there an individual wiped away tears from his or her eyes and whispered the names of friends or family killed in previous battles with Horsekin.

“The rest of you, the combined alarli, will head out to the usual grazing grounds,” Calonderiel said. “But be very wary of riding too far west. Princess Carra will lead you, and Valandario will travel with her. Our dweomermasters can pass news back and forth, so we’ll tell you what we learn when we learn it, if anything.”

Again came the nods, the sighs of agreement. The assembly began to break up. Some of the People stood and immediately walked away; in twos and threes others lingered, talking among themselves or coming forward to speak with the prince or Calonderiel. By then Salamander had dark circles under his eyes; he let his father and his son lead him off to their tent. Dallandra waited until the crowd had completely dispersed, then joined Cal, Dar, and Meranaldar.

“I’ll send off messengers to Cengarn tomorrow,” Dar said. “They need to know that I’ll be coming with my retinue.”

“Retinue?” Cal wrinkled his nose, then turned his attention to Dallandra. “I’m assuming you’re willing to come with us.”

“Of course.” Dalla sat down opposite him. “It’s a sad enough errand.”

“Yes, it is. You might have to convince young Ridvar about the dweomer. The cursed Roundears never want to believe in it.”

“What?” Dar said. “It was dweomer that saved Cengarn in the Horsekin War. Everyone knows that story.”

“They may know about it,” Dallandra said, “but they don’t want to know, and so they work at forgetting it.”

“I don’t understand why—”

“She’s right.” Cal interrupted the prince. “They don’t want to hear about it, the Roundear lords. You want to know why? Because they take themselves and their petty little feuds so seriously, that’s why. They think every wretched thing they do is of the greatest importance to the kingdom and the gods, and they like it that way. Tell them how big the world really is, all those other creatures and other planes and all of it, and they’re forced to see how small and crude and miserable they are. Their king’s the worst of the lot. Remember that if you ever meet him.”

Meranaldar gasped and rose to a kneel, glancing back and forth between prince and banadar as if he expected a fight to break out. Calonderiel got to his feet and turned his attention to the scribe.

“Oh, stop snorting and rolling your eyes, you damp-arse bastard!” Cal said. “You’re a bad influence, I swear it, always mincing around and bowing and swelling Dar’s head for him with your ‘my prince this’ and ‘my prince that.’ ”

“Oh, indeed?” Meranaldar rose to face him. “Well, there happen to be proper ways of doing things, not that you would know. The ancient ways of royalty are still valid.”

“Oh, by the silver shit of the Star Gods! Ancient ways, my arse! Look at us, a pack of shepherds and horse wranglers!”

“And likely to remain so with churls and bumpkins like you in command.”

Calonderiel took a step forward. Meranaldar took one backward.

“You know something?” Cal said. “If you don’t hold your tongue, I’m going to beat some sense into you.”

Meranaldar turned pale and sat back down. Dallandra thought of intervening, but there was justice in what Calonderiel was saying. Besides, she had to admit that Cal when angry displayed a pure kind of energy, a strong but fine-drawn maleness that she liked watching. The royal object of Cal’s diatribe was watching the banadar with eyes that showed not the slightest emotion. Cal turned his head and stared right at the prince. For a moment the stalemate held; then Dar suddenly laughed.

“You’re right,” Dar said. “Not about beating my scribe, I mean, but about the rest of it. All of the rest of it—the things you said aloud, and the meaning just under your words.”

“Good,” Cal said. “I’m glad to hear it.” He paused for effect, then bowed with an over-graceful sweep of his hand. “My prince.”

Everyone burst out laughing, except Meranaldar, who did manage to force out a watery smile. He was close to tears, Dallandra suspected, and later, when they had a chance at a private word, Meranaldar admitted as much.

“I’m honestly afraid,” the scribe said, “that one of these days the banadar is going to turn on me and slit my throat before anyone can stop him. If anyone even wants to stop him, that is.”

“Oh, come now!” Dalla said. “He’s not going to do that, and trust me, if he should lose his mind and try, a great many people will make sure he doesn’t hurt you.”

“That makes me feel a bit better.” Meranaldar pulled an ink-stained rag from the waistband of his leggings and wiped cold sweat from his face. “I suppose. He must hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. He hates what you represent, the old ways, and the return of the refugees who believe in those ways. The Westlands are changing—we have to change if we’re going to survive—and Cal loves the way things have been.”

Meranaldar considered this for a long moment, then nodded his agreement. “Yes, I can see that,” he said. “There are those back in the Southern Isles who hate the way things are changing, too. The high council used to rule a tidy little world where everyone knew their place and kept to it. Now anyone who can get passage on a ship can find themselves an entirely new place, here in the grasslands.”

“I take it that not everyone’s perfectly contented with life in the islands.”

“I only wish.” Meranaldar smiled briefly. “It’s the young people, of course, who are discontented, and we do have some young people, though not enough. The volunteers who settled Mandra, for instance, and laid out its farms. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, how cheerful they are about all the hard work they do, keeping their town alive.”

“Yes, I have. I was surprised, I’ll admit it.”

“So was I, but I understand them. In the islands we’ve devoted ourselves to honoring the past. You probably can’t imagine how completely we live for the past.”

“Young people would rather have a future.”

“Precisely, which is why our banadar can’t keep your future from arriving, one fine day. And you know, if we ever return to the ruins of the cities, everything will change again—no, that’s too weak a word. Our lives will be utterly recast, Dalla, whether we’re Westfolk or Islanders. Both kinds of life will be transformed utterly, and none of us can tell how that will be, I’ll wager, not even Valandario with her gem-dweomer.”

“You’re right, aren’t you?” She felt suddenly cold, utterly exhausted. “I hate to say it, but you’re right.”

All that evening, Prince Daralanteriel held a council in front of his tent. Men from the alar came to ask questions or to listen to Calonderiel’s plans for the coming war; after a short while, they pledged their support and left again. Princess Carra sat on the ground next to her husband and occasionally made a comment or explained a fine point of the various treaty ties between Cengarn and the Westfolk. Dallandra merely listened. As the most competent healer in camp, she would no doubt have to ride with the war party when the time came, and she was dreading the job—not the danger to herself, but the sights and stench of the wounds, the deaths, and the pain of those she considered her kin.

That night, when Calonderiel escorted her to her tent as usual, she succumbed to her dread enough to avoid being alone for as long as possible. She invited him to sit down in the soft grass and talk.