The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr

      ‘I’m afraid I have to agree. How many gems have fallen on their own colours? Only four out of twenty, and the black have dropped on the gold squares. I don’t like this.’ Val shook her head. ‘I don’t like it at all.’ She began gathering up the stones and shoving them into leather pouches. ‘I’ve spent too much time poring over it, and it still baffles me. The first spread was even more chaotic. Two stones rolled right off the cloth.’

      ‘That sounds ominous.’

      ‘Something is happening – no, something is trying to happen, some large event is struggling to be born, and it doesn’t bode well.’ She frowned as she pulled pouch strings tight. ‘That’s all I can say.’

      ‘It matches the omen-dreams I’ve been having.’

      ‘Then there’s nothing we can do but wait.’

      ‘Wait and be cautious. I was wondering, do you think you could join your alar to the prince’s? I’d feel better knowing that another dweomermaster rode on guard.’

      ‘I don’t see why not. Dev always enjoys exchanging lore with the prince’s scribe, and I’d be glad of the chance to do some more reading in your books.’

      ‘Good. If we keep travelling fast, there won’t be a problem finding enough food and water for both herds.’

      ‘And it seems to me that fast is the way we should be travelling, for a lot of reasons.’ Val patted the pouch of stones with one hand. ‘I’ll tell you what. We’ll leave a day before you and then camp where there’s plenty of grass. Once you catch up, we’ll head straight north. I’d best tell Dev now, so he doesn’t plan an extra performance.’

      They went to look for Devaberiel and found him a little way from camp, where he was standing and practising his latest declamation with only the grass for an audience.

      ‘Clinging like lice on the backs of hoofed death –’ Dev broke off in mid-sentence, then grinned at the two women. ‘Not of course that I was speaking of you.’

      ‘I assumed that,’ Valandario said. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’ve changed our plans. We’ll be leaving the festival a little early, then joining the prince’s alar.’

      ‘All right.’ Dev shrugged, smiling. ‘Whatever you two think best.’

      Dallandra left them discussing details and walked back to camp.

      Over the next several days, some of the earlier arrivals rode out, taking their stock to better pasture. New alarli rode in to take their places, and one of them brought a changeling infant with them. The bewildered father, Londrojezry, escorted Dallandra out to the horse herd to see the child before he’d even unpacked his travois. On top of a pile of tied-down blankets, the baby lay in a cradle of leather stretched over a wooden frame, and his purple eyes showed nothing but suspicion.

      ‘He hates to be touched,’ Lon said. ‘He screams if you try to pick him up.’

      ‘How has your wife been feeding him?’ Dalla said. ‘He doesn’t look malnourished.’

      ‘She has to express her milk into a bowl. First she dipped it up with a bit of cloth and gave him that to suck. Now, and my thanks to the Star Goddesses, he’ll take it from a spoon. But it’s still exhausting her, it takes so long.’

      ‘He was born when?’

      ‘Six moons ago.’

      ‘Try feeding him something other than milk. Deverry oats cooked to a fine paste, and broths.’

      ‘My thanks, Wise One.’ For a moment Lon stood looking down at the cradle with tear-filled eyes. ‘I wanted a son so badly.’ Then he stooped, picking up the cradle. ‘I’ll tell my wife about the food.’

      Dallandra watched him hurry away. She’d seen this type of changeling before, and she knew that nothing but more grief lay ahead for him and his father both. They became utterly withdrawn as they aged, this kind of child. Some wandered away from their alarli and were never seen again; others drifted along at the edge of their parents’ camps, accepting food or the occasional piece of clothing but nothing more, never speaking, never reaching out.

      And yet, as she walked back to camp, she found herself wrestling with a strange feeling: envy. Not envy of having a changeling, certainly, but – of what? Lon’s wife loved that child so much she was draining her own life to keep him alive, and he’d never repay her with anything but grief. But would the grief truly matter to her? To love someone that much. Is that what I envy? Dallandra wondered at herself. It seemed a sick sort of thing, that kind of love.

      Later that evening, Dalla stood just beyond a circle of firelight and watched Lon feeding his son a broth of oats boiled with milk. The wife, Allanaseradario, hunkered nearby and watched as the child slurped up the food. Now and then she would wipe its sticky chin with a bit of rag. Dalla felt all her familiar disgust with the mess and raw crudity of caring for infants. I made my choice, she thought. I took the dweomer willingly. Yet the envy came back, squeezing her heart, it seemed, as she stood in the shadows, looking into the circle of firelight. Finally she turned away with a toss of her head only to realize that Calonderiel was standing nearby, watching her in turn. She waited for him to speak, but he merely walked away, shoving his hands into his pockets and striding off.

      The time was wrong to think of grievous things. The festival proceeded with songs and declamations, feasts and dancing, powerful enough to draw most of the changelings into a web of laughter and good music. For an afternoon here, an evening there, Dallandra could even forget the danger gathering in the west. But the threat never quite left her, and others feared as well. Carra in particular began to worry about her younger daughter, Perra, riding with her husband’s alar.

      ‘They really should have been here by now,’ Carra remarked one morning. ‘Dalla, don’t you think so?’

      ‘Perhaps, but the festival only began three days ago.’

      ‘I suppose,’ Carra said, ‘but you never know these days. Things happen. If the Horsekin start raiding …’ She let her voice trail away.

      ‘That’s true enough,’ Dallandra said. ‘I’ll scry.’

      Dalla walked down to the lake shore and stared at the rippled water while she thought about Perra. The image built up fast: Perra was kneeling in the grass and lashing a blanket-wrapped bundle to a travois while her husband led over the horse chosen to pull it. Thanks be to the Star Goddesses! Dallandra thought. I wonder how I would have told Carra if they’d come to harm? Carra loved her children extravagantly, just like Londrojezry and his wife. And I? The question nagged at Dalla all day.

      One worry solved itself when Perra and her alar rode in before nightfall. Dallandra was relieved to see that the new grandchild, some four months old, showed every sign of being an ordinary infant. In fact, she looked completely elvish, with furled ears and cat-slit purple eyes, just as if her grandmother’s human nature had never tainted her blood.

      ‘I’m glad, too,’ Carra told Dallandra. ‘She won’t get teased about her ears the way poor Perra was. Children can be so awfully cruel.’

      ‘Well,’ Dalla said, ‘they do cruel things, but they do them out of ignorance. They don’t know how much pain they’re causing.’

      ‘I suppose. At least Rori’s learned to fight back. The last time someone teased him, he knocked him down with one good punch.’

      ‘He seems to have something in common with the man you named him for.’

      They shared a laugh at Rhodry Maelwaedd’s expense.

      ‘It’s so odd, Dalla,’ Carra went on. ‘Here you never wanted children of your own, but you’ve ended up the honorary aunt of so many. Every mother who has a changeling in her care turns to you for advice.’

      ‘You’re right, aren’t you? It goes to show, that you never know what your wyrd is going to bring