The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr

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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 and serving her people. But now, on the border between Deverry and the Westfolk lands, the winds of change are blowing, and they are ill winds indeed …

      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 towards their aunt-by-marriage.

      ‘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 calloused 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 the 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 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 their 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 centre 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 grey 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 towards the waterfall, then swoop back to buzz around the lads like flies. A big yellow gnome, Neb’s favourite, 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

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