The Gold Falcon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  THE POISONED ROOT OF IT ALL

  ARCODD PROVINCE SUMMER, 1159

  Raves for Katharine Kerr’s Deverry:

  “Much as I dislike comparing anything to The Lord of the Rings, I have to admit that on this occasion it’s justified.”

  —Interzone

  “There is a solid depth to Deverry and its inhabitants that make it seem very real. She’s also a master at creating tension, then balancing it with a quiet or humorous moment . . . effectively connects past events with present ones, showing the characters’ real growth . . . the best-written dragon in fiction. Recommended.”—Starlog

  “Katharine Kerr is both a good writer and a thorough Celtic scholar. Indeed, her work is beginning to invite comparisons with Katherine Kurtz’s massive Deryni saga.”

  —The Chicago Sun-Times

  “Kerr fluently and gracefully limns her Celtic-based medieval world, depicting attractive and colorful men, women and elves.”—Publishers Weekly

  “. . . a solid fantasy background, engaging characters and a plot that is intricate without being tangled. Certainly Kerr can . . . be compared to that other great Katherine—Kurtz—and her Deverry series can stand honorable comparison with the Deryni books.”—Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine

  “One of the best sword and sorcery novels I have read in some time.”—Andre Norton

  “No one does real, live gritty Celtic fantasy better than Katharine Kerr.”—Judith Tarr

  THE

  GOLD FALCON

  Katharine Kerr’s

  Novels of Deverry,

  The Silver Wyrm Cycle

  Now available from DAW Books:

  THE GOLD FALCON

  THE SPIRIT STONE

  Forthcoming from DAW:

  THE SHADOW ISLE

  Copyright © 2006 by Katharine Kerr.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-09889-9

  All rights reserved.

  DAW Books Collectors No. 1367

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Paperback Printing, May 2007

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Peg Strub, M.D.,

  whose sharp eyes saved my life.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I seem to have inadvertently caused some confusion among readers of this series by my system of subtitles for the various volumes in it. All of the Deverry books are part of one long story, divided into four “acts,” as it were. Here’s the correct order:

  Act One: Daggerspell, Darkspell, The Bristling Wood, The Dragon Revenant.

  Act Two, or “The Westlands”: A Time of Exile, A Time of Omens, Days of Blood and Fire, Days of Air and Darkness.

  Act Three, or “The Dragon Mage”: The Red Wyvern, The Black Raven, The Fire Dragon.

  Act Four, or “The Silver Wyrm”: The Gold Falcon, which is the book you have in hand. Yet to be published: The Spirit Stone and The Shadow Isle.

  THE POISONED ROOT OF IT ALL

  IN THE YEAR 643, deep in the Dark Ages of the kingdom of Deverry, a loose coalition of clans, allied with the few merchants and craft guilds of that time, put a new and unstable dynasty on the throne of the high king. In those wars the Falcon clan lost most of its men, noble-born and commoners both. In gratitude, the king betrothed his third son, Galrion, to the last daughter of the Falcon, Brangwen. But her brother, Lord Gerraent, loved her far more than a brother should, and Prince Galrion loved the magical dweomer power more than he did his betrothed. When Galrion broke off the betrothal, his father the king banished him from the royal line forever. The prince took the name of Nevyn, which means “no one” in the Deverrian tongue, and went off to study the dweomer with the master who had hoped to teach his craft to Galrion and Brangwen both.

  As for Brangwen, left heartsick and shamed, she fell into her brother’s arms and bed. Soon enough, she was with child. Only then did Nevyn realize how greatly he loved her and how badly he’d failed her. Although he tried to get her away from her brother, he failed to stop the inevitable tragedy. When she drowned herself in shame, at her grave he swore a rash vow. Once she was reborn again on the wheel of life and death, he “would never rest” until he put right the evil he’d done by bringing her to the dweomer power which should have been hers. Little did he realize that fulfilling this vow would take him four hundred years of a single dweomer-touched lifetime, while the other actors in their tragedy were reborn and died again and again.

  During his long life other souls would find themselves tangled in the chains of his and Brangwen’s wyrd (fate or karma). Some were people he helped; others became his enemies. Nevyn took apprentices, such as Aderyn and Lilli, and made contact with other masters of the dweomer, such as Dallandra, one of the Westfolk, elven nomads who wander the plains to the west of Deverry proper.

  Eventually Brangwen was reborn as Jill, the daughter of a mercenary soldier named Cullyn of Cerrmor and Seryan, a tavern lass. After more than a few adventures she finally saw her true destiny and went with Nevyn to study the dweomer as she should have done all those years before. Only then could Nevyn die.

  Jill outlived him by many years. With the help of the elven dweomermaster, Dallandra, and her bizarre lover, Evandar, a powerful soul who had never been incarnated at all, Jill captained the first war against the savage Horsekin and their so-called goddess, Alshandra. In truth, Alshandra was a mortal spirit, though one of immense magical power, and in the end Jill managed to kill her, though she went to her death as well. One of those Jill left behind was the man she’d loved in her youth, the half-mad berserker Rhodry Maelwaedd, whose wyrd turned out to be something stranger than even a great master of the dweomer could have imagined.

  For over fifty years, Dallandra and the Westfolk have stayed on guard against the Horsekin and the cult of their false goddess. Although Alshandra is dead, the religion she left behind lives on. Dallandra has also been doing her best to shepherd the other souls bound by wyrd to her and ultimately to Jill and Nevyn while she continues her own dweomerwork of serving her own people. But now, on the border between Deverry and the Westfolk lands, the winds of change are blowing, and they are ill winds indeed. . . .

  ARCODD PROVINCE SUMMER, 1159

  The ancient Greggyn sage Heraclidd tells us that no man steps in the same river twice. Time itself is a river. When a man dies, he leaves the river behind, only to cross it again at the moment of birth. But betwixt times, the river has flowed on.

  —The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

  NEB STRODE ACROSS the kitchen and stood next to the window, no more than a hole cut in the wall, open to the smell of mud and cows. Still, he found the air cleaner than that inside. Smoke rose from damp wood at the hearth in the middle of the floor and swirled through the half-round of a room before it oozed out of the chinks and cracks in the walls. Aunt Mauva knelt at the hearth and slapped flat rounds of dough onto the griddle stone. The oatcakes puffed and steamed. Neb heard his stomach rumble, and Clae, his young brother, took a step toward their aunt-by-marr
iage.

  “Wait your turn!” she snapped. Her blue eyes narrowed in her bony face, and strands of dirty red hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat. “Your uncle and me eats first.”

  “Give that batch to the lads.” Uncle Brwn was sitting at the plank table, a tankard of ale in his hand. “They’ve been pulling stones out of the west field all day, and that watery porridge you dished out this morning was scant.”

  “Scant? Scant, was it?” Mauva turned and rose in one smooth motion. “You’ve got your bloody gall! Dumping more mouths to feed into my lap—”

  Brwn slammed the tankard down and lurched to his feet. “You miserly barren slut! You should thank the gods for sending you my nephews.”

  Mauva squealed and charged, waving her fists in the air. Uncle Brwn grabbed her by the wrists and held on until she stopped squirming. He pushed her back, then set his thick and callused hands on his hips, but before he could speak, she shoved her face up under his, and they were off again, screaming at each other, sometimes with curses, more often with meaningless grunts and squeals. Neb knelt down by the hearth, found a thin splint of wood, and flipped the oatcakes over before they burned.

  “Get somewhat to carry these,” he hissed at Clae.

  Clae glanced around the kitchen. On the sideboard stood an old flat basket; he grabbed it and held it up. Neb nodded, and Clae brought the basket over. Neb flipped the cooked cakes into the basket—three apiece. Little enough, but they would have to do. His screeching kin might quiet down before he could cook another batch. He stood up, grabbed the basket from Clae, and slipped out the back door. Clae followed, and together they slogged across the muddy farmyard and dodged around the dungheap. Skinny chickens came clucking, heads high and hopeful.

  “Forgive me,” Neb said. “There’s barely enough for us.”

  A packed earth wall surrounded house, barn, and farmyard. They hurried through the gate and trotted around the outside of the wall, where an apple tree stood to offer them some shade. They sat down, grabbed the still-warm cakes, and gobbled them before Mauva could come and take them back. Above them little apples bobbed among the leaves, still too green, no matter how hungry they were. Clae swallowed the last bit of cake and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Neb?” he said. “I wish Mam hadn’t died.”

  “So do I, but wishing won’t bring her back.”

  “I know. Why does Uncle Brwn put up with Mauva?”

  “Because she lets him drink all the ale he wants. Are you still hungry?”

  “I am.” Clae sounded on the edge of tears.

  “Down by the river we can find berries.”

  “If she finds us gone, she’ll make Uncle beat us.”

  “I’ll think of some way to get out of it. If we get back late enough, they’ll both be drunk.”

  Brwn’s farm, the last steading on the Great West Road, lay a mile beyond the last village. No one saw the boys as they hurried across the west field and jumped over the half-finished stone wall into wild meadow. It was a lovely warm afternoon, and the slanted light lay as thick as honey on the green rolling pasture land. Tinged with yellow clay, the river Melyn churned and bubbled over boulders. All along its grassy banks stood mounds of redberry canes, heavy with fruit, sweet from a long hot day. The boys gorged themselves, drank river water, and stuffed in a few more handfuls of berries. Clae would have eaten still more, but Neb stopped him.

  “You don’t want the runs, do you?”

  “I don’t, truly, but oh, it’s so good not to be hungry.”

  They sat down in the warm grass and watched the river gleam like gold in the afternoon light, gliding along south to join the great rivers of the kingdom of Deverry—or so they’d always been told. They’d spent their entire lives here in Arcodd province. Off to the east stretched half-settled farmland; to the west and north, wild country. Far away south from their rough frontier lay the rich fields of the center of the kingdom and the fabled city of Dun Deverry, where the high king lived in a reputedly splendid palace.

  When Neb turned to the north, he could see, about half a mile away, the smooth rise of pale tan cliff that separated this valley from the high plateau beyond. The river tumbled down in a spray of white laced with rainbows. Above, the primeval forest, all tangled pines and scruffy underbrush, stood poised at the cliff edge like a green flood, ready to pour over the valley.

  “Neb?” Clae said. “Can we go look at the waterfall? Can we go up to the top?”

  “I don’t think so. We don’t want to be caught up there in the dark.”

  “I guess not. Well, maybe Aunt Mauva will be drunk soon.”

  Materializing as silently and suddenly as always, the Wildfolk appeared. Knee-high gray gnomes, all warts and spindly limbs, clustered around the two boys. In the air blue sprites flew back and forth, wringing their tiny hands, opening tiny mouths to reveal their needle-sharp fangs. At the river’s edge undines rose up, as sleek as otters but with silver fur. The gnomes grabbed the sleeves of Neb’s torn shirt and pulled on them while the sprites darted back and forth. They would start north toward the waterfall, then swoop back to buzz around the lads like flies. A big yellow gnome, Neb’s favorite, grabbed his hand and tugged.

  Clae saw none of this, because he was pawing through the grass. Finally, he picked out a bit of stick and began chewing on it.

  “Get that out of your mouth,” Neb said. “And come on, we’re going to have a look at the waterfall after all.”

  Clae grinned and tossed the stick into the river. An undine caught it, bowed, and disappeared into foam.

  In a crowd of Wildfolk the two boys headed upstream, following a grassy path beside the noisy river. Now and then Clae seemed to feel the presence of the gnomes. When one of them brushed against him, he would look down, then shrug as if dismissing the sensation. For as long as he could remember Neb had seen the Wildfolk, but no one else in his family had the gift of the Sight. He’d learned early to keep his gifts to himself. Any mention of Wildfolk had exasperated his literal-minded mother and made the other children in town mock and tease him.

  The two boys followed the river to the white water churning around fallen boulders. They panted up the steep path that zigzagged along the cliff face, then turned to look back. Under a black plume the distant village was burning. Neb stared, unable to comprehend, unable to scream, merely stared as the bright flower of flame poured black smoke into the sky. Little people, the size of red ants from their vantage point, scurried around and waved their arms. Larger ants chased them and waved things that winked metallic in the sun. A cluster of horses, the size of flies, stood on the far side of the village bridge. The farm—it too burned, a blossom of deadly gold among the green meadows. Two horses and riders circled the earthen wall.

  “Raiders!” Clae’s voice was a breathy sob. “Oh, Neb! Horsekin!”

  Overhead a raven shrieked, as if answering him. The two riders suddenly turned their horses away from the farmstead. They broke into a gallop and headed upstream for the waterfall.

  “Into the forest!” Neb said. “We’ve got to hide!”

  They raced across the grassy cliff top, plunged into the forest, and ran panting and crashing through the underbrush among the pines and brambles. Twigs and thorns caught and tore Neb’s shirt and brigga, but he drove his brother before him like a frightened sheep until at last they could run no more. They burrowed into a thick patch of shrubs and clung together. If the slavers caught them, they would geld Clae like a steer. And they’d kill me, Neb thought. I’m old enough to cause trouble.

  Neb could see nothing in the tangled mass of forest. He could hear only the waterfall, plunging down over rock. Had they run far enough? Voices—Neb thought he heard voices, deep ones, muttering in what sounded like anger, then a crash and a jingle, very faint, as if someone had dropped something metallic on to a rock. He did hear a shout that turned to a scream. Clae stiffened and opened his mouth. Neb clapped a hand over it before he could speak.

  Whether voices or not, th
e sounds died away, leaving only the chatter of the waterfall to disturb the silence. Slowly the normal noises of a forest picked up, the distant rustles of small animals, the chirping of birds. The yellow gnome appeared to perch in a nearby bush and grin. It patted its stomach as if pleased with itself, then disappeared. Slowly, too, the gray twilight deepened into a velvety night. They were safe for now, but on the morrow in the sunlight the Horsekin might return to search the woods. Neb realized that he and Clae had best be gone as soon as it was light enough to see.

  Eventually Clae squirmed into his brother’s lap like a child half his size and fell asleep. Neb drowsed, but every snap of a twig, cry of an owl, or rustle of wind woke him in startled terror. When at last the gray dawn came, he felt as stiff and cold as an old man. Clae woke in tears, crying out at his memories.

  “Hush, hush,” Neb said, but he felt like weeping himself. “Now we have to think. We don’t have a cursed bite to eat, and we’d best find something.”

  “We can’t go down to the river. If the Horsekin are still there, they’ll smell us out.”

  “They’ll what?”

  “Smell us out. They can do that.”

  “How do you know?”

  Clae started to answer, then looked away, visibly puzzled. “Someone must have told me,” he said at last.

  “Well, we’ve heard plenty of tales about the Horsekin, sure enough. Speaking of noses, wipe yours on your sleeve, will you?”