‘I don’t know yet.’ Blethry gave him a grim smile. ‘But I’m assuming he’s dead. He turned traitor, you see. When I left Cengarn, the gwerbret was getting ready to march on him. From the look of things, Ridvar took the dun.’
Cengarn’s men, left on fort guard, confirmed Blethry’s guess. Lord Honelg was dead, his lands attainted, his young son a hostage, his widow gone back to her father’s dun.
‘Who’s the new lord here?’ Blethry said. ‘Or has Ridvar reassigned the lands yet?’
‘He has, my lord,’ the fortguard captain said. ‘Lord Gerran of the Gold Falcon. You might remember him as the Red Wolf’s common-born captain, but he’s a lord now.’
‘I do indeed, and he’s a grand man with a sword and a good choice all round.’
‘We all feel the same, my lord. Are you marching down to Cengarn on the morrow?’
‘We are.’
‘His grace may have left already. He’s mustering his allies at the Red Wolf dun for the march west.’ The captain turned to Kov and bowed. ‘It gladdens my heart to see your people, envoy, with a war about to start.’
‘My thanks,’ Kov said. ‘But it sounds to me like the war’s already started.’
‘You could look at it that way, truly,’ the captain said, grinning. ‘But either way, we’re glad you’ve come in on our side.’
The Mountain Folk weren’t the only allies of Gwerbret Ridvar who were readying themselves for the Horsekin war. At the dun of the Red Wolf, a good many miles south-west of the dun that now belonged to the Gold Falcon clan, Tieryn Cadryc and his men were only waiting for the arrival of his overlord to ride out. Preparing the warband for that ride fell to Gerran of the Gold Falcon, its lord and so far one of its only two members, the other being his young page Clae. Despite his sudden elevation to the ranks of the noble-born, Gerran still considered himself the captain of the tieryn’s warband, mostly because none of the tieryn’s other men could fill the post. Although the tieryn had a son, Lord Mirryn, Cadryc was leaving him behind on fortguard.
Every night at dinner in the great hall, Mirryn would stand behind his father’s chair like a page. When Cadryc arrived, Mirryn would bow to his father, then without a word pull out the chair at the head of the honour table to allow Cadryc to sit down. He would wait to eat, too, until all the others at the honour table had finished their meal. After three days of this treatment, Cadryc had had enough.
‘Still sulking, are you?’ Cadryc said.
‘Well, ye gods!’ Mirryn snapped. ‘How do you think I should feel, Father, left behind out of the fighting like a woman?’
‘And what’s this business with my blasted chair?’ Cadryc continued without acknowledging the question.
‘Since I’m being treated like a servant, I thought I should act like one.’
‘Just sit down, and do it right now. You’ll drive me daft, hovering like that.’
With a grunt Mirryn sat himself down at his father’s left hand, but he crossed his arms over his chest and stared out at nothing. The tieryn swung his head around to glare at his son, who pretended not to notice. Although most of the tieryn’s hair was either grey or missing, and Mirryn still sported a thick mop of brown hair to go with his freckles and the family blue eyes, no one would have doubted they were father and son, lean men, both of them, and stubborn.
‘If you starve yourself at my table,’ Cadryc said, ‘you’ll be too weak to fight even if I should change my mind, which I won’t, so by the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell, stop sulking and eat your blasted dinner!’
Mirryn went on studying the empty air. Finally Lady Galla, his mother, leaned across the table from her place at the tieryn’s right. ‘Mirro,’ she said, ‘please? This has been dreadful for all of us.’
‘Oh very well, Mam.’ Mirryn drew his table dagger from the sheath at his belt and placed it next to the trencher in front of him. ‘Shall I cut you some bread?’
‘If you’d be so kind.’ Lady Galla smiled at him, then favoured her husband with another smile, which he ignored.
The ‘all of us’ to whom the lady had referred were the other occupants of the honour table. Besides the tieryn, his stout, dark-haired lady, and his son, Gerran was now eating with the noble-born, who included Galla’s niece, Lady Branna, and her common-born husband Neb. Branna, with her yellow hair and her narrow blue eyes, was a pretty young woman, but Neb was the nondescript sort, brown haired, skinny, neither handsome nor ugly. Most people would have ignored him, but Gerran knew his worth.
Soon, however, Cadryc’s allies and vassals would appear to join the muster. Gerran was counting on the table filling up, allowing him to sneak back to his old place at the head of one of the warband’s tables over on the other side of the great hall, even though he had to admit that sharing a trencher with Lady Galla’s serving woman, Lady Solla, had its compensations. Every now and then her lovely hazel eyes would meet his when he offered her a slice of bread or passed her some portion of the meal. She would blush, and he would find himself at a loss for words.
The times were simply wrong for pleasantries. The coming war filled Gerran’s waking thoughts. On the morrow, messengers from their most important ally arrived at the dun. When the gatekeeper came running to tell Gerran that Westfolk were at the gates, Gerran told the man to let them in, then hurried out to greet them. From a distance the Westfolk looked much like ordinary men, but close up their wild blood revealed itself. Their eyes had abnormally large irises, slit with vertical pupils like a cat’s. Their long ears curled to a delicate point like sea shells. Rumours claimed they were immortal, too, but that Gerran heartily doubted. At his invitation they dismounted, three archers with their curved short bows slung over their backs and a man carrying the be-ribboned staff of a herald.
‘Messages, my lord,’ the herald said. ‘From Prince Daralanteriel himself.’
‘Good,’ Gerran said. ‘Come into the great hall. The tieryn’s there.’
As he followed them inside, Gerran was still wondering over the easy way the herald had called him ‘my lord’, since his shirt still bore the Red Wolf blazon, not his new gold falcon. Most likely the prince or his cadvridoc had described him at some point. Heralds, after all, remembered everything they were told or they lost their exalted positions.
From the door of the great hall, Lady Branna watched the herald dismount, then hoist down a pair of bulging saddlebags. A dark-haired fellow who looked more human than elven, he seemed somehow familiar, though she couldn’t place where she’d seen him before. She followed him to the table of honour, where her uncle was sitting at the head with her aunt at his right. Branna sat down next to her on the bench just as Neb came trotting down the staircase.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Cadryc called to him. ‘Messages from Prince Dar, I’ll wager!’
‘They are, your grace,’ the Westfolk man said. ‘My name is Maelaber, by the by, and I’m Calonderiel’s son.’
Aha! Branna thought. That’s why he looks familiar.
‘Then twice welcome, lad,’ Cadryc said.
‘My thanks. We’ve also come to lead your army to our muster. It’s too easy for Deverry men to get lost out in the grasslands.’
‘Now that’s true spoken.’ Cadryc paused for a smile. ‘It gladdens my heart to have you with us. Your prince is a far-sighted man.’
‘He is that, your grace. I’ve also got a gift for Lady Branna. Councillor Dallandra sent it.’ Maelaber opened one of the saddlebags and brought out a large bundle wrapped in thick grey cloth and stoutly tied with leather thongs. ‘Books, I think. She didn’t tell us.’
Courtesy demanded that Branna sit quietly until the tieryn gave her the parcel, but curiosity trounced courtesy. Despite her aunt’s dark looks, she got up and ran around the table to snatch the parcel out of Maelaber’s hands.
‘My thanks,’ she said with a grin. ‘I’ll just take these upstairs.’
Branna avoided looking Galla’s way as she dashed for the staircase, but she did notice Neb scowling at her – but not for her lack of good manners, she was sure. As the tieryn’s scribe, he was going to have to stay at his lord’s side until Cadryc gave him leave to go. His curiosity would have to wait.
Up in their chamber, she laid the parcel onto the bed, then flung open the shutters over the window to let in the sunlight. A few slashes with her table dagger disposed of the thongs. She unwound the cloth to find two leather-bound books and a scrap of pale leather bearing a note from Dallandra.
‘These belonged to Jill and Nevyn,’ the note read. ‘They should therefore belong to you. Study them well while the army’s gone, especially the larger one. Someday you’ll need to carry all this lore in your memory.’
Branna laid the note down and pulled the larger book free of the wrap to lay it right onto the bed, despite the smell of ancient damp from its dark leather binding. It was far too large for her to hold, taller than her forearm was long. When she opened it, the smell of mouldy parchment made her sneeze. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, then saw, written on the first leaf, Nevyn’s name. With that sight memory flooded back. She could see the old man opening the book and pointing to a diagram of concentric circles marked by words that, in the memory, she couldn’t yet read.
Jill never learned her letters until she was grown, Branna thought. Nevyn taught her. Tears blurred her sight, sudden hot tears that shocked her as they spilled. If only Nevyn were alive now, with his vast knowledge, if only he were here – but of course, he was there, opening the door to the chamber, in fact, though he was now as young and ignorant and as nearly powerless as she.
‘What’s wrong?’ Neb said. ‘Ye gods, that thing stinks!’
‘It does.’ Branna pulled a handkerchief from her kirtle. ‘It’s made me sneeze, and my poor eyes!’
While she wiped her face and blew her nose, he turned a few pages of the book. He frowned a little, mouthed a few words, then suddenly smiled.
‘I remember this,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
‘I do. You told me once you’d owned it since you were a very young man.’
Neb looked up, his lips half-parted in shock.
‘I mean,’ Branna said hastily, ‘Nevyn told Jill that.’
‘I figured that. It just always surprises me, how much you remember.’
‘Me too. What’s this second one?’
The smaller book turned out to contain healing lore, first a treatise on the humours, then a vast compendium, page after page of herbs, roots, symptoms, and treatments, and finally some instructions for simple chirurgery. The handwriting wavered, each letter spiky and oddly large.
‘Jill’s writing,’ Neb said abruptly. ‘I do remember a few things, here and there. She learned late, you see, and so her hand’s somewhat childish.’
‘I feel like there’s four people in this chamber. Do you feel that, too?’
‘In a way.’ Neb glanced over his shoulder as if he expected to see Jill and Nevyn standing behind them. ‘It creeps my flesh.’
Branna closed the book of medicines and walked over to the window. Outside lay the familiar view of her uncle’s dun wall and the green fields beyond. She’d half-expected to see a different prospect, though the details had escaped her memory. Somewhere I’ve never been, she thought, not as me, anyway. Did I know the silver dragon when I was there? Ever since she’d seen Rori fly past Cengarn, the silver wyrm had never been far from her mind.
‘What were Prince Dar’s messages?’ she said.
‘Um? Jill, what did you say?’
Neb was reading a page in the larger book. He was leaning over to peer at the writing, his shoulders hunched like those of a much older man. Again she remembered seeing Nevyn reading in this same book, sitting at a rough-made table with a dweomer light hovering above him. For a moment she saw their surroundings: a windowless stone room, and at the top of the walls ran a carving of circles and triangles, abruptly broken off as if someone had deliberately defaced it. Stop! she told herself. You’re Branna; Branna, not Jill.
‘Neb, stay here!’ Branna made her voice as sharp as she could. ‘What were Prince Dar’s messages?’
With a toss of his head Neb straightened up and turned to face her. ‘You’re right,’ he said softly. ‘For a moment I was back there. What did you used to call it? The other When?’
‘Just that. But we’re here now.’
‘So we are. That’s going to be our spell of safety, isn’t it? Stay here now.’
‘It’s a good one. We’ll need it.’
Neb smiled, nodding a little. ‘But the messages,’ he went on, ‘were all about the army. He’s raised over five hundred archers and a good many swordsmen. He’s hoping to raise more before we join him.’
‘We? You’re not riding with the Red Wolf warband, are you?’
‘Of course I am. My place is at the tieryn’s side.’
For a moment she could barely breathe. Neb caught her hand in both of his.
‘What’s wrong –’ he began.
‘I’m terrified you’ll get killed, of course,’ Branna said. ‘Why does he want you to go?’
‘To write messages if he needs some sent, of course.’
‘Very well, then, but you won’t be riding to battle, will you?’
‘I won’t. Will you look down on me because of that?’
‘Oh, don’t be stupid!’
Neb grinned. ‘I’d be useless in a battle, unless they need someone who can throw stones with a fair degree of accuracy. I used to be good at slinging them at crows and squirrels.’
They shared a laugh, and she felt the fear leave her.
‘After all,’ Branna said, ‘you are my husband now. I get to worry. You’re supposed to be touched by my devotion.’
‘That’s true spoken, and my apologies.’ Neb made a sweeping bow. ‘May I express my complete and total devotion to you?’
‘You may. How about the passion that burns within you?’
‘That, too. Quite a lot of that, actually. Do you regard me with great esteem?’
‘I do, and with affection to match it.’
‘Well and good, then. Give me a bit of time, and I’ll compose some englynion in your honour.’
‘That’d be lovely, but what is this? I’m supposed to sit at my window with the scroll in my lap and long for your return? Huh. I’m going with you.’
‘What? You can’t do that!’
‘Why not? I’ll be your assistant. I can gather rushes for pens and all that. It’s not like anyone would be asking me to swing a sword, is it?’ Branna thought for a moment. ‘And I can tear up rags for bandages and help Dalla.’
‘Your uncle won’t let you come.’
‘Then we shan’t tell him until it’s too late.’ She laid a hand on his arm and smiled up at him. ‘Don’t you want me there?’
‘Of course I do. I mean – gods, I never should have admitted that.’
‘True spoken. You shouldn’t have, but you did, and so let’s plan my escape.’
‘What about your aunt?’
‘She’s got Adranna and the children, and Solla now, too. She won’t be lonely any longer.’
‘There are times when I can see that being married to you is going to be like living in one of Salamander’s tales. And I’m thankful to every god there is.’ Neb raised her hand and kissed her fingers.
Someone knocked in urgent rhythm on the door. Neb ran to open it and reveal Salamander, who strode in without waiting to be asked. The gerthddyn frowned and looked Branna over with stern grey eyes.
‘What is this?’ Salamander said. ‘I’ve just had an omen warning about you, my fine lady. You’re not planning on doing anything stupid like following the army, are you?’
‘What makes you think I’d do such a thing?’
‘Your general temperament, mostly, as well as the way you blushed scarlet just now.’
‘I hate you.’
‘Ah, so I’m right.’
‘I cannot let Neb go off to war while I stay here, I just can’t.’
‘What?’ Salamander turned to Neb. ‘You’re riding with the army?’
‘I’m the tieryn’s scribe,’ Neb said. ‘He wants me there.’
‘That is profoundly short-sighted, risky, and altogether foolish of his grace, but since he’s a Deverry lord, I’m not surprised in the least. Isn’t Ridvar bringing a scribe?’
‘He is,’ Neb said, ‘but Cadryc can’t possibly ask for the use of him. Have you forgotten his grandson, Matto? Ridvar did want him killed.’
Salamander said something in Elvish that sounded immensely foul, though Branna had no idea of what it meant. ‘Well, I can read and write.’ Salamander switched back to Deverrian. ‘I’m not much for scribing, Neb, but if you packed me up some inks and pens, I could do a passable job, and Dar’s scribe will be riding with us as well.’
‘But it’s my duty to –’
‘Hang duty! Neb, you and Branna both are far too valuable to risk your lives in a dangerous venture like the one we have in hand. Don’t you understand? Your dweomer is the hope of the border.’
Branna turned away, saw the books lying on the bed, and turned back again. Her heart was pounding as badly as if she’d run a long way.
‘I see.’ Neb, however, sounded perfectly calm. ‘What I can’t see is how to explain that to the tieryn.’
‘Imph,’ Salamander said. ‘No more can I, but it has to be done. I’ll consult with Gerran.’
‘Does he know?’ Branna turned back. ‘Gerro, I mean.’
‘He does, if you mean about dweomer and Neb having it,’ Salamander said. ‘And he suspects it about you. He doesn’t know the bit about the hope of the border and all that. Think! Even if we wipe Zakh Gral off the face of the earth, this is only the first skirmish in a long war. Do you think the Horsekin are going to go meekly back to their own lands and stay there if they lose?’
‘I see your point,’ Neb said. ‘The more dweomermasters we can muster, the better.’
‘It’s the best weapon we have against them,’ Salamander said. ‘We’ve got some days before Voran and Ridvar arrive. I’m bound to come up with a good tale for the tieryn’s ears before then.’ He paused for a sunny grin. ‘I’m good at tales.’
Whenever the tieryn left the great hall, Gerran went back to his old place at one of the warband’s tables. He had the only chair, and he liked to lean it back on its rear legs to allow him to put his feet up on one of the benches. He was just starting on his first tankard of ale for the day when Salamander came trotting down the stone staircase. The gerthddyn hailed him and hurried over.
‘I need your advice on somewhat,’ Salamander said. ‘May I join you?’
‘By all means. Fetch yourself some drink.’
Salamander found a tankard and filled it from the barrel over by the servants’ hearth, then sat down on the bench not occupied by Gerran’s boots.
‘It concerns Neb the scribe,’ Salamander said. ‘He tells me he’ll be riding with the army. He shouldn’t. He needs to be here in the dun. The fortguard can’t keep watch against certain kinds of danger, but he can, if you take my meaning.’
‘I do.’ Gerran had a long swallow of ale. ‘Not that I like thinking about it.’
‘I realize that.’ Salamander paused for a nervous glance around, but none of the servants were in earshot. ‘I can take his place, if our good tieryn will let him stay behind. But I need a tale that will convince Cadryc, some clever ploy, some magnificent obfuscation, a lie, in short, since I can’t tell him the truth.’
‘There’s no need to pile up horseshit.’ Gerran set his tankard down. ‘You’re not inventing a tale for the marketplace.’
‘Well, what else can I do?’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll go speak to his grace right now.’
Gerran found Tieryn Cadryc out in the stables, where he and the head groom were making an important decision: which horses the warband would take to Zakh Gral. Gerran waited for a lull in their talk.
‘Your grace?’ Gerran said. ‘A private word with you?’
‘Of course.’ Cadryc nodded at the groom. ‘I’ll be back straightaway.’
They walked across the kitchen garden and out to the curve of the dun wall, where no one could overhear.
‘What’s all this, Gerro?’ Cadryc said.
‘Your grace, do you trust me?’
‘What? Of course I do!’
‘And do you trust my judgment? You don’t think me daft or suchlike, do you?’
‘Of course not! Gerro –’
‘Then grant me a daft-sounding boon on my word alone. Neb the scribe should stay here when we ride out.’
For a long moment Cadryc stared at him narrow-eyed. ‘On your word alone? No explanation?’
‘None, your grace.’
Cadryc shrugged and smiled. ‘Done, then,’ he said. ‘It’s an easy enough boon to grant, eh? I can always ask Prince Dar’s scribe if I need a message written or suchlike.’
‘Better yet, Salamander can read and write. Neb can give him what he needs for the job.’
‘Well, there you are, then. Easy and twice easy.’
Cadryc went back to the stables, and Gerran started for the broch. He took a shortcut through the kitchen garden, then realized that someone was lurking behind the cook’s little gardening shed. He could guess who it was.
‘Come out, gerthddyn,’ Gerran said wearily. ‘I should have known you’d be eavesdropping.’
‘Think of all the effort I’ve saved you.’ Salamander strolled over to join him. ‘This way you won’t have to tell me what our noble tieryn said. My thanks, by the way. You were quite right. We didn’t need the pile of horseshit. I’ll just go tell Neb that the matter’s settled.’
Salamander trotted off with a cheerful wave. As Gerran followed, he happened to glance up. Far above the dun the black dragon floated on the summer breeze. Although he didn’t know where Arzosah was lairing, at various times during the day this strangest of all possible allies would appear, keeping watch over the dun. She’d take a turn or two over it at night, as well, when she was on her way to hunt down a wild meal. Gerran was never sure if her presence was comforting or terrifying. As long as she doesn’t scare the horses, he thought. With a shrug he went inside to join the warband.
‘Well, it gladdens my heart to have that settled,’ Branna said. ‘I feel horribly selfish, though. I’m just so happy that Neb will be staying here safe in the dun.’
‘Why not be happy?’ Salamander gave her one of his sunny grins. ‘Life is short, so grasp what joy it gives you. As to safe, I hope you both will be, but you’ll need to be on your guard.’
‘Because of the raven mazrak?’
‘Precisely. He may not know who you specifically are, but dweomer can always smell out dweomer. He must know you have it, and that therefore you’re a potential thorn in his feathered side.’
‘Let’s hope I can be a dagger, not a thorn.’
‘Someday, mayhap, but not now.’ Salamander’s voice dropped to a cold seriousness. ‘Never challenge him. Merely watch. He’s got a hundred times the power you do.’
‘Well and good, then. Will Arzosah be carrying messages back and forth? I can always send you one if I see him.’
‘Alas, I doubt it. We’ll need the dragons with the army.’
‘Rori will be there, too?’
‘Oh, of course. He never was the sort of man you could keep out of a good fight.’
Branna felt that she should know exactly what he meant, but the memories eluded her. She was about to ask more, but she heard voices behind her. They were standing just inside the honour door of the great hall, which was beginning to fill up for the evening meal. When she glanced over her shoulder she saw Aunt Galla and her daughter Adranna walking towards them. She stepped aside to let them enter. As they passed, Salamander bowed to both women. Galla favoured him with a smile and a wave of her hand, but Adranna strode on by with her mouth set in a thin line and poison in her eyes.
‘Alas,’ Salamander said. ‘I fear me your cousin will never forgive me. Truly, if I were her I wouldn’t forgive me, either. My heart aches for her loss.’
‘She’s better off without Honelg,’ Branna said. ‘So are the children.’
‘No doubt, but it must be hard on a woman to return a widow to her father’s dun.’
‘Little do you know how true that is! She and Galla squabble all the time.’
‘That must be unpleasant.’
