The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr

the unpacking. From a sack she took out two old, threadbare blankets, another grudged gift. When she spread them over the bed, the gnome vanished only to reappear in Branna’s lap. Neb sees the Wildfolk too, Branna thought. I could see his eyes move, following them.

      ‘I’m off to get some firewood and the like,’ Midda announced. ‘It might be chilly tonight.’

      ‘Well and good, then. Has that chamberlain given you a decent place to sleep?’

      ‘He has. A nice little space set off by partitions, private, like, and only one other woman to share it with, and us with a mattress apiece. Much better than I had –’ She paused to gesture at the room. ‘Than we had at your father’s dun.’

      With one last snort of remembered disgust, Midda bustled out of the room. The gnome reached up a timid little paw and touched Branna’s cheek.

      ‘It is nicer,’ Branna said. ‘And I certainly can’t be any more miserable than I was before. Now, if only I really had dweomer, I’d turn my stepmother into a frog, and I’d not turn her back unless she begged me.’

      The gnome grinned and nodded his head in agreement.

      ‘If only I really had dweomer,’ Branna went on. ‘I say that too much, don’t I? But they were such lovely tales I used to tell us. I suppose I should stop. I’m grown now and marriageable and all the rest of it.’

      The thought of abandoning her fantasies saddened her, because she’d told herself those tales for as long as she could remember. They had started as dreams, beautifully vivid dreams, so coherent and detailed that at times she wondered if they were actually memories.From those wonderings she had developed a detailed fantasy about another Then and another When, as she called it – another life somewhere that she and her gnome had lived together, when she’d been a mighty sorcerer who had travelled all over Deverry and far away, too, off to Bardek and beyond. Her favourite tale concerned a magical island far across the Southern Sea, where elven sorcerers lived and studied books filled with mighty spells. The gnome had always listened, nodding his head when he agreed with some detail, or frowning when he felt she’d got something wrong.

      ‘Neb,’ she said aloud. ‘There was a man with a name like that in the tales, do you remember? But he was old. He can’t be the same person.’

      The gnome scowled and wagged a long warty finger at her.

      ‘What? You can’t mean he is the same person.’

      The gnome nodded.

      ‘Oh here, that’s silly. And impossible.’

      The gnome flung both hands into the air and disappeared. Branna was about to try calling him back when someone knocked on the door. Lady Galla opened it and hurried in, with a page carrying a folded coverlet right behind her. Branna scrambled down from the windowsill and curtsied.

      ‘There you are, dear,’ Galla said. ‘Do you like the chamber? I found somewhat to brighten it up a bit. Now that you’re here, we’ll have to start on some bed curtains for you. We should be able to get them done before the winter.’

      ‘Thank you so much,’ Branna said. ‘I really really appreciate all this, Aunt Galla.’

      ‘You’re most welcome, dear.’ Galla took the coverlet from the page. ‘You may go, Coryn.’

      The page skipped off down the hall. Together the two women spread out the coverlet, linen embroidered with red and blue spiral roundels and thick bands of yellow interlace.

      ‘It’s awfully pretty,’ Branna said.

      ‘And cheerful. Having somewhat cheerful’s important just now, I should think.’ Galla reached out and patted her hand. ‘And don’t you worry, we’ll see about finding you a proper husband.’

      ‘Tell me somewhat. Would it be horribly wrong of a lass like me to marry some common-born man, one who has some standing, I mean, like somebody who’s serving a powerful lord?’

      ‘Not at all, truly, just so long as he could provide for you properly.’

      ‘Oh, I’m used to doing without.’

      Galla winced and glanced away. ‘Your dear stepmother,’ she said at last. ‘Well, I’m sure she has her virtues.’

      ‘She popped out two sons in four years. That’s all the virtue Da cares about.’ Branna heard the venom in her voice and tried to speak more calmly. ‘He never much liked me, anyway.’

      ‘Now, dear, it’s hard for a true-born warrior like him to show tender feelings.’

      ‘Oh, don’t try to sweeten it! You know that he blames me for my mother’s death. Well, doesn’t he?’

      ‘It’s a hard situation all round.’ Galla hesitated. ‘He did at the time, dear, but I tried to make him see reason.’ Again the hesitation. ‘Not that he did. Oh, it griped my very soul! You nearly died with her, you know, and your poor mother was never very strong anyway.’ She collected herself with a little sigh. ‘Well, you’re here now, and I’m glad you’ve come to me.’

      ‘So am I. I truly am.’ Branna crossed to the window and looked out. She could see past the ward and over the dun wall to the green fields and the stream beyond. ‘It’s even a lovely view. At home I could look out over the cook house, and the smoke really was awful.’

      ‘That woman!’ Galla rolled her eyes heavenward.

      Branna sat down on the broad stone windowsill and leaned out, just slightly, to look up at the sky. A solitary raven was hovering over the dun on outstretched wings. As she watched, she realized that while it looked the size of an ordinary bird, it had to be flying extremely high, because she couldn’t see its eyes or the fine points of its wings. The only explanation could be that it was abnormally large. It flapped and circled, then hovered again, as if it were studying the dun below. She waited and watched, as it repeated the manoeuvre, but no other ravens flew up to join it, and it never made a sound. Finally, with one last flurry of black wings, it flew away, heading north.

      ‘What is it, dear?’ Galla said.

      Branna drew her head back inside. ‘Probably naught. A solitary raven, and I thought it was watching us.’

      ‘It was probably just eyeing the stables in the hopes of stall sweepings. They eat the most disgusting things, ravens.’

      ‘True spoken, but this one – I don’t know why, but it chilled my heart. It seemed so large, for one thing.’

      ‘Perhaps it was a rook, not a raven at all.’

      ‘Well, that could be it. Silly of me, I know.’ Branna arranged a bright smile. In her chilled heart she doubted very much indeed that the bird she’d seen was a rook or any other natural animal. Yet what else would it be? she asked herself.

      ‘I think we’ve finished here,’ Galla said. ‘Shall we go down to the great hall?’

      As they were walking over to the table of honour, Branna noticed Neb, sitting on the servants’ side of the room near a window. In the patch of sunlight that fell onto his table lay sheets of parchment, upon which he was scoring lines with the back of his little penknife against a strip of wood. A fat yellow gnome crouched on the table beside the parchments. It turned its head, leapt to its clawed feet, and began dancing on the parchments. Neb laid down his penknife and swatted at the gnome, who turned and pointed at Branna. Neb raised his head and looked her way. He certainly does see the Folk! she thought. Young, skinny, so completely different from the old man she’d often dreamt about – and yet his ice-blue eyes seemed so familiar that she nearly ran to him, nearly called him by the name she’d given him for her tales: Nevyn.

      Neb raised his hand in greeting and smiled at her, as if he were hoping she’d join him, but Aunt Galla beckoned to her, and her cousin Mirryn was already sitting at the honour table. Branna risked a smile Neb’s way, then hurried after her aunt.

      Branna passed