The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr

stretched in a wooden frame, that eventually would become the first panel of her bed hangings.

      ‘Gerran’s very handsome,’ Branna said at last. ‘And his heart’s closed up as tight as a miser’s moneybox.’

      ‘That’s true. He’s had a hard life, losing his mother and father that way.’

      ‘You know, there’s one thing I’ve never understood. His mother – why did she drown herself? Did she love her man as much as all that?’

      ‘She did, but truly, I think she would have survived her grief if it weren’t for one thing. The night before the warband left, she told me, she and her man fought about somewhat – I forget what, some little thing – and when the warband rode out, she was still ever so angry. She never got the chance to tell him that she forgave him and end the quarrel. And that’s what tipped the balance.’

      ‘I see. That’s awfully sad.’

      ‘It was, and so I felt that the least I could do was care for her little son, but you know, it was odd about Gerran. He was so aware of being different, no matter how welcome I tried to make him feel.’

      ‘Different? You mean because he’s not noble-born?’

      ‘Exactly. You know your uncle well enough to know that a man’s skill with a sword means more than rank to him, and certainly Mirryn’s always treated Gerro like a brother.’ Galla paused for a small sigh. ‘It’s a pity that you and Mirryn are bloodkin. Though I suppose no one would frown at a cousin marriage out here on the border.’

      ‘I’d frown on it. I mean, I hope I’m not being rude, but I know him so well that I’d feel like I was marrying my brother. We even look a fair bit alike.’

      ‘Not rude at all, dear. I’ll admit that I’d have qualms myself about marrying my cousin.’

      ‘Besides, I wouldn’t make a good wife for a man of his rank.’

      Galla hesitated – weighing words, Branna assumed.

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ Branna went on. ‘I’d hate to have to entertain emissaries from the gwerbret and suchlike.’ She paused for a smile. ‘My dearest aunt, everyone knows I’m a bit strange. I’m moody and I have a nasty tongue. Isn’t that what they all say?’

      ‘Well, plain speaking isn’t a good thing in the wife of a high-ranking lord, that’s true.’

      Branna smiled and picked up her needle again. ‘What about in the wife of a captain?’

      ‘You’d need to be courteous in the ordinary sort of way to get along with the other servitors’ wives, but other than that, it wouldn’t matter so much.’

      ‘I see. Well, I’ll think about it.’

      And what if I were the wife of a scribe? Branna kept that thought to herself. Like most Deverry girls, she’d always hoped that someday she’d find a good husband, but given the situation in her father’s dun, she’d never dared hope that she’d have two solid prospects. Neb has a good position here, she thought – and I’ll wager he’ll live a fair bit longer than Gerro, too.

      Beyond that practical advantage of being the wife of a scribe, not a warrior, Branna had other reasons for favouring Neb. For as long as she’d known him, Gerran had kept his thoughts to himself so resolutely that he rarely spoke unless spoken to. The way he’d volunteered his opinion of her looks, earlier that day, had taken her utterly by surprise. She didn’t fancy long evenings of silence when she would wonder if her husband were brooding over some deep secret or merely half-asleep. On the other hand, she’d noticed that Neb always had a cheerful word for everyone he met and could be positively chatty when he had a moment to spare. The way he cared for his young brother impressed her as well. He would doubtless take a real interest in any children he might father, whereas for Gerran, children would always be women’s work.

      Her gnome certainly favoured Neb. Whenever she met the young scribe, the gnome would materialize, grin at Neb, and clap its bony little hands. Neb would glance around to make sure that no one else could see, then smile back at the little creature. Yet oddly enough, Branna could never quite bring herself to speak to Neb about the Wildfolk. They were always in danger of being overheard, but even more, she was afraid of where such a conversation might lead them – not that she could understand her fear.

      Alone, up in her chamber, she could talk openly to the gnome, who did his best to answer her with gestures. Any mention of Gerran brought a sour face and a surly shake of the head. One evening, tired from her day’s work, she took a candle and went up to bed early. As she sat in the window, combing her hair, the gnome appeared to perch on her dower chest.

      ‘Do you think I should finish the shirt in there to fit Neb?’ Branna said.

      It nodded a yes.

      ‘It’s so odd about his name. I mean, that it’s so, well, familiar. He really is like that ancient sorcerer, isn’t he? He’s got the same blue eyes and everything.’

      The gnome clutched its head with both hands and mugged disgust.

      ‘It’s absolutely impossible that he’s the same person. My folk don’t grow younger with time, you know. Besides, how can there be real dweomer? It’s just somewhat from old tales, like the ones Salamander tells.’

      The gnome pointed at itself, then at her face.

      ‘Well, truly, I do see you, and so does Neb, and other people say the Wildfolk aren’t real, but –’ She let her voice trail away. But what? she asked herself. The gnome crossed its arms over its chest and smirked.

      In the morning, as she was coming down for breakfast, she noticed Salamander, standing near the foot of the staircase and idly looking over the great hall. He glanced up, saw her, and bowed.

      ‘Good morrow, gerthddyn,’ Branna said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

      ‘I did, truly. And you?’

      ‘I did, my thanks. I’ve been enjoying the tales you tell. So many of them seem to have dweomer in them.’

      ‘There’s naught like a good marvel to catch your audience’s attention.’

      ‘True spoken. You’ve travelled all over the kingdom, haven’t you?’

      ‘I have.’

      ‘I don’t suppose that you’ve ever come across – oh well, never mind. I don’t mean to be stupid.’

      Branna started to turn away, but Salamander caught her by the elbow.

      ‘Real dweomer, you mean?’ He was grinning at her.

      She pulled her arm free of his lax grasp and hurried away. You dolt! she told herself. You’ve really made a fool of yourself this time! At the honour hearth she risked a glance back, but Salamander had found a place at a table and was devoting himself to his breakfast. At the honour table Mirryn sat alone, slumped in his chair.

      ‘Good morning!’ Branna sat down opposite him and smiled.

      Mirryn never looked up from his profound study of the table’s edge. His hair, usually a thick smooth brown, looked matted and spiky, as if he’d been running his hands through it out of sheer nerves, and his puffy eyes made Branna wonder if he’d stayed awake all night. A serving lass brought a basket of warm bread and a crock of butter, then trotted off again.

      ‘What is it, Mirro?’ Branna said. ‘You look troubled about somewhat.’

      ‘Do I?’ He ducked his head to avoid looking at her and reached for the basket.

      ‘You do. What –’

      ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, to hear that you don’t want to marry a coward like me.’

      ‘What?’ Branna laid both hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘My lady