The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr
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an ingratiating manner.
‘Ah well,’ Cadryc said at last. ‘You’re right enough, gerthddyn. It’s just –’ He paused, chewing on the corners of his moustache. ‘It’s just – well, you’re a gerthddyn. You must hear plenty of strange tales, eh?’
‘More than a few, truly, my lord.’
‘Imph.’ Cadryc hesitated for a few moments more, then shrugged. ‘Well, there was a prophecy, you see. I’ve never told Mirryn or my wife about it, because to tell you the honest truth, I’m cursed ashamed of believing it.’
‘A prophecy? From a priest?’
‘A priest of a sort, I suppose you’d call him. It was what? about ten summers ago now. The Horsekin were raiding up north, and the old gwerbret summoned his allies. This was the raid where he was killed, come to think of it. Anyway. We managed to find their stinking ugly camp, and we fell on them by surprise and slaughtered the guards and their reserves. We freed the human captives, some of the gwerbret’s farm folk, and then some others who’d been Horsekin slaves.’ Cadryc paused, looking away as if getting his memories in order. ‘Now, among the human men was this one scabby fellow, dressed all in rags, and his feet were all swollen and crusted with calluses, just like he’d never worn shoes in his life. Turned out he hadn’t, actually. But all the folk who’d been born slaves treated him like he was a king. The gwerbret’s farm folk told us that he was a priest of their cursed foreign goddess.’
‘Alshandra again?’ Salamander said. ‘Huntress of Souls?’
‘The same one, truly. Like that gold arrow we found in the burned village.’
‘Indeed. Do go on. This is most fascinating, engrossing, mesmerizing, and the like.’
‘All of that, eh? Well, now, this priest fellow refused to eat. Said he’d starve himself to death rather than put up with being our prisoner. A lot of gall, if you ask me, since his cursed Horsekin had been taking our folk prisoner! We thought about killing him, of course, but it’s risky, killing priests. What if their god decides to take a little vengeance, eh?’
‘Quite right. You can’t be too careful.’
‘So anyway, we lords got together and talked about forcing him to eat. But I spoke up and said let him do what he wanted, if he was so blasted keen on dying. I could see the indignity of it, being tied up and having gruel poured down your throat or suchlike, and so the other lords agreed. And the scabby fellow thanked me, if you can imagine it! Thanked me for letting him starve to death! In return, says he, I’ll give you a prophecy. Keep your son safe till his nineteenth summer begins. Do that and he’ll live a fair long time. Let him fight before that, and he’ll die young.’ Cadryc looked down at the ground and shrugged again. ‘No doubt you think me a fool for believing the filthy bastard.’
‘I don’t,’ Salamander said. ‘I can see where a prophecy like that would chill a father’s heart. What happened to the priest?’
‘He starved, just like he wanted. Took him a long time, but he went happily enough at the end.’
‘Do you remember his name, by any chance?’
‘I don’t, though I can still see his face, clear as clear in my mind.’
‘And how old is Mirryn?’
‘Eighteen summers now.’ Cadryc looked up. ‘I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve been keeping track. Every Beltane I put a mark on my saddle peak, just a little nick in the leather.’
‘You know, I can’t say why, but I have this feeling that you’re right to keep him out of the fighting.’
‘Do you now? Then my thanks. I just can’t bring myself to ignore it, and ye gods, his nineteenth summer will start next year anyway. He’s the only son I have.’
The thing that Salamander couldn’t admit to the tieryn was that he’d received an omen of his own. When he was listening to Cadryc describe the prophecy, he felt an icy cold ripple down his back, a warning from the dweomer that, indeed, it had been a true speaking. Too bad that wretched priest died, he thought. He must have had dweomer, and I would have loved to have asked him a few questions.
‘What about those rescued farm women?’ Salamander said. ‘Are any of them still with us?’
‘As far as I know. They were all young women then. Why?’
‘Because I love a good tale. Indeed, my very living depends upon my having a store of good tales. “Lasses captured by Horsekin but saved in the nick of time!” That should extract a few coins from those who lead safe but dull lives.’
‘You could be right about that, indeed. Well, my thanks for listening, gerthddyn, but I’ll ask you not to spread my part of the tale around.’
‘Don’t worry, your grace, I’d never presume. I have a son of my own, you see, and I can sympathize.’
That son was very much on Salamander’s mind when he contacted Dallandra again, late that evening when he could be alone to scry her out. First he told her what he’d gleaned about the situation in the dun, including Branna’s tales.
‘Well,’ Dallandra thought to him. ‘I’d say that she’s ready to remember, and doubtless Neb is too, with her there in the same dun, but you can’t force such things upon people. If they’re not ready to ask on their own, their minds will shy away like frightened horses, and then they might never come to the point of asking.’
‘Yes, that’s very true. May I drop portentous hints?’
‘Knowing you, you probably won’t be able to stop yourself. Just make them hard to understand, will you?’
‘Fear not. I shall do just that. Mystery, maze-like and mind-fooling, shall be my mode.’
Dallandra set her lips together and glared at him.
‘One thing I wanted to ask you,’ Salamander said hurriedly. ‘Have you seen my Zan recently?’
‘No. When the winter camps broke up, he went with your father’s alar. They’ll be at the summer festival, though, and I’ll have news for you then.’
‘Good, and thank you. Soon, I hope, I’m going to Cengarn with the tieryn and his men. I’ll take my leave of them there and start travelling around, plying the inhabitants with questions as I go. I have hopes of catching up with Rhodry as well as gleaning information about the Horsekin.’
‘Good. Just be very careful, will you? And stay in contact with me. I’ll talk to Dar, but I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t lead the alar north. At some point we can meet up.’
‘A most excellent plan, oh princess of powers perilous! And fear not, I shan’t be silent. Being silent goes against my nature.’
The summer festival took place during the days surrounding the longest day of the year. Prince Dar’s scribe, Meranaldar, told Dallandra that in ancient times, when the great observatory at Rinbaladelan still stood, the festival had begun at noon on the longest day, but out in the grass no one bothered to measure time so precisely. Some alarli rode in early, others late, and no one stayed long before they were forced to ride out to find better pasture for their stock. By custom, however, the prince’s alar always arrived first. By counting days, Meranaldar did his best to keep track of the sun’s position in the sky in order to determine what he called the ‘real’ start of the festival. At times he would thrust a wooden pole into the ground and study its shadow at noon – why, Dallandra didn’t know.
They held the festival at the Lake of the Leaping Trout, the northernmost of the chain that Deverry folk call Peddroloc, the four lakes, all of which lay in steep valleys. To the north of Leaping Trout the land flattened, but rather than grass, trees grew there, an orchard of pines, pruned and planted in straight rows for fuel.
The People cremated their dead. Whenever a person died, his kin took the seasoned wood waiting in one of the stone sheds near the lake shore. After the