The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr

he? He’s a confident lad for his age. I’d been a bit worried about old Veddyn, to tell you the truth. He forgets things.’ Cadryc suddenly stepped away and waved to someone across the ward. ‘Ah. There’s Goodman Gwervyl. I’d best go speak to him personally. He’s a decent man with a bow, and he’s offered to train more archers.’

      Gerran found a place to wait out of the way. Serving lasses hurried by, their arms full of empty baskets, heading for a wagon down by the gates. When he saw Lady Branna following them, Gerran stepped forward and bowed to her. She waved, gave him a brittle little smile, and trotted on past. Not a very encouraging sign, he thought. She probably saw him as nothing but a common-born lout, or worse yet, as bloodkin of a sort, thanks to his fostering. Either opinion would keep him at a distance. He wished he had a better idea of how to court a lass. Fortunately, the tieryn returned and broke into his gloom-laden thoughts.

      ‘I’m not sure what to say to the wretched gwerbret,’ Cadryc said. ‘Any ideas?’

      ‘None, my lord.’

      ‘We’ll have to think about it on the ride to Cengarn. I’ll have to be careful about how I put things. For now, work with the pages, will you? You’ll have to be firm with young Ynedd. His mother spoiled the lad, and he snivels all the time.’

      ‘Well and good. I’ll see what I can do.’

      Like all great lords, Cadryc had noble pages in his household, sons of his vassals sent to him for their training in warfare and courtesy. At ten summers Coryn was a decent enough lad, but Ynedd, a skinny little boy, all big blue eyes and blond curls, had never been away from his mother before. Gerran refused to let pity soften the lad’s training; someday Ynedd’s life would depend on how well he could fight.

      They went round the back of the broch to practise away from the wagons and the livestock. Gerran let Coryn rest in the shade of the wall while he showed Ynedd the proper grip for the hilt.

      ‘We’ll have to work on your wrists,’ Gerran said. ‘All right, lay it down on the ground, then pick it up again.’

      Glancing sideways at him, Ynedd did as he was told. Gerran had him pick it up and lay it down five times in a row, each time correcting his grip. Finally Ynedd flung the sword down.

      ‘I don’t want to do this any more,’ he announced.

      ‘Too bad.’ Gerran caught the lad’s gaze with his own. ‘Do it anyway.’

      Ynedd crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Gerran slapped him across the face.

      ‘You can’t do that to me!’ Ynedd’s voice rose to a squeal. ‘You’re just a commoner.’

      ‘But he can.’ Coryn got up and trotted over. ‘He’s the captain, and you’ve got to obey him. You truly truly do.’

      Ynedd’s eyes filled with tears, but he picked up the sword. After a dozen times or so, Gerran saw that his little hand shook on the heavy hilt and told him that he could stop.

      ‘There,’ Gerran said. ‘You’ve done somewhat you didn’t think you could do.’

      Ynedd shrugged and glared at the cobblestones. Gerran sent the lads off to the stables to get their ponies for a riding lesson. As he started after them, he noticed Clae, standing and watching some paces away.

      ‘Am I doing somewhat wrong?’ Clae said.

      ‘Not unless you’re supposed to be working,’ Gerran said.

      ‘I’m not. I just wanted to see. I wish I could learn to fight.’

      ‘Oh, do you now? Why?’

      ‘So I could grow up to be a rider and kill Horsekin.’

      Something flat and cold in the lad’s voice caught Gerran’s attention, making him remember what had brought the lad to the dun. He knelt on one knee so he could look him in the face.

      ‘That’s an honourable enough thing,’ Gerran said. ‘How old are you? Do you know?’

      ‘Eight, sir. My da always kept count. Could I ever be a rider? I’m only a scribe’s son.’

      ‘So? Riders aren’t noble-born. But here, training is hard work. I wager you’d tire of it soon enough.’

      ‘I wouldn’t. When I got tired, I’d just think of my uncle, and I’d hate them all over again, and I wouldn’t be tired any more.’

      Gerran had never seen such cold rage in a child’s eyes.

      ‘I keep dreaming about our village,’ Clae went on. ‘The Horsekin come, and I try to stop them, and they laugh at me. I hate that dream.’

      ‘I’ll wager you do. Have you told Neb about it?’

      ‘I haven’t. He’d only tell me I shouldn’t be dwelling on what we can’t change. You know what hurts the worst? When we were up by the waterfall watching them, I knew I couldn’t do anything to stop them. Naught!’ His soft voice cracked. ‘I never want to feel that way again.’

      Gerran considered him, a healthy child and big for his age, but it was the hatred that impressed Gerran the most. A desire for glory made most Deverry men want to be warriors, but it took harshness, that bitter streak in mind and soul, for a man to become a successful one.

      ‘Tell you what,’ Gerran said. ‘If your brother agrees, I’ll take you on. But I’ll warn you: it’s hard work, and even a wooden sword will hurt if you get hit with it. Fair?’

      ‘Fair.’ Clae grinned at him. ‘Will the tieryn let me?’

      ‘No doubt, if I ask him, but the question is whether your brother will let you. He’s the head of your clan now. You ask him and tell him to come talk to me this afternoon.’

      While he gave his noble charges their riding lesson, Gerran occasionally found himself thinking about Clae, who reminded him of himself as a child. He could remember his own burning rage that the Horsekin had killed his father. The hatred still existed, though transmuted to something cold after all these years, as clean as a new sword blade. The gods of war had given Clae just such a splendid gift.

      When they returned to the dun, Gerran found Neb waiting for him. The scribe came with him to the stables and held the horse’s bridle while Gerran unsaddled him.

      ‘I take it Clae spoke with you,’ Gerran said.

      ‘He did,’ Neb said. ‘You know, he’s the only bloodkin I have left in the world, and it aches my heart to see him wanting to join a warband.’

      ‘I can understand that.’

      ‘But I can’t stand in his way, either. From what everyone in the dun tells me, he’ll have the best swordsman in all Deverry to learn from.’

      ‘Indeed?’ Gerran felt himself blush at the compliment. ‘They exaggerate by a fair bit.’

      ‘We’ll see.’ Neb smiled, more than a little ruefully. ‘But if you’ll take Clae on, I’ll agree. His wyrd isn’t mine, and there’s naught I can do about that.’

      ‘True spoken. But he’ll have to serve a sort of apprenticeship. If he doesn’t have the raw gifts he needs to make a swordsman, I’ll turn him back over to you.’

      ‘Fair enough. I –’ Neb stopped in mid-sentence and stared at something over Gerran’s shoulder.

      When Gerran turned, he saw Branna, walking across the ward at some distance. From the look in Neb’s eyes Gerran suddenly realized that the scribe was besotted with the lass. With the realization came a baffling thought: deep in his soul Gerran knew that Neb had the better claim on her. Yet the thought of stepping back and letting the scribe – this skinny weakling – why he even knew how to read! I’ll not give up as easily as that, Gerran told himself. We’ll just see who wins her.

      Without a word aloud, Gerran turned to follow her. Neb did the same, but they both stopped when