The gwerbret’s thanks were apparently the only reward he considered Salamander deserved, but Councillor Oth thought otherwise. When Ridvar gave Salamander leave to go, Oth followed him out and pressed a small sack of coins into his hand.
“A token of our gratitude,” Oth said, “and good silver, too. Please forgive my lord, gerthddyn. I fear me that he so hates being proved wrong that he’s forgotten all his generosity.”
“My thanks to you,” Salamander said with a little bow. “As for your lord, it’s a hard thing to rule men twice your age and more. I can understand his stubbornness.”
“Good.” Oth paused, his eyes suddenly wide. “Oh, ye gods! I just remembered—a few days ago Cadryc sent messengers off to Honelg’s dun. I hope to every god that he hasn’t had them killed.”
“Would Honelg be that dishonorable?”
“I have no idea. Who knows what a madman will do?”
“True spoken, alas.” Salamander was remembering Honelg standing between his gates, sword at the ready to cut him down if need be. “But, equally truly, he has no reason to kill them. Not yet, anyway. Although I just had an ugly thought. There must be other Alshandra worshippers in Cengarn. Do you think we should keep our news about Honelg quiet?”
“Ugly it may be, but a good thought nonetheless. It would doubtless be for the best. I’ll speak to the gwerbret about it the first chance I get.”
Despite Oth’s fears, the Red Wolf messengers returned that very afternoon, some hours before the evening meal. The noble-born guests and as many of their captains and men who could crowd into the great hall had taken their places at the tables early, partly to honor the gwerbret’s new wife but mostly to get a good start on the drinking to come. Salamander had talked himself into a seat at Tieryn Cadryc’s table, where he had a good view of the gwerbret and the princes, seated together at the table of honor along with Lady Drwmigga, Calonderiel, and Dallandra, who had condescended to put on a blue linen dress—one of Branna’s, judging from the fancy embroidered spirals down the sleeves.
Serving lasses were rushing around, filling tankards with ale and goblets with mead, when two dusty, road-stained men, one tall and beefy, the other skinny and short, appeared in the doorway. They stood hesitating, afraid to come forward, until Branna pointed them out to Tieryn Cadryc. He stood up and waved until he’d caught their attention.
“Oh, good!” Lady Galla said to Salamander. “Warryc and Daumyr have come back.”
The messengers worked their way through the crowd and knelt in front of Cadryc. When Daumyr handed the tieryn a silver message tube, Neb shoved his chair back, ready to answer the tieryn’s summons to read it.
“What?” Cadryc was examining the lump of wax at the end of the tube. “This is my seal.”
“It is, Your Grace,” Warryc said. “We couldn’t deliver the letter to Lord Honelg. We only saw him from a distance, like. We got to his village, and everything seemed well and good there, but when we got to the dun, we found the gates shut against us.”
“And?” Cadryc’s voice went tense.
“Lord Honelg was up on the catwalk, Your Grace. So he leans over and shouts down that there’s fever in his dun, a bad lot of it, and that we’d best get ourselves away before we catch it too.”
Galla caught her breath with a gasp.
“My lady?” Daumyr said. “I’d not trouble your heart over it too badly. Honelg looked as fit as fit, and when we rode back to the village, we asked them why they’d not warned us about the fever.”
“They hemmed and hawed,” Warryc took over again. “But all they could say was that no one had told them. Could Honelg’s people be that ill and no word get out? Wouldn’t his servants all come from that village? I don’t believe in that fever, Your Grace.”
“And no more do I,” Cadryc said. “You’ve done well, lads. Go get yourselves somewhat to eat and drink.”
The two riders scrambled up, bowed, and trotted away to follow their lord’s welcome order. When Salamander caught Neb’s attention, the scribe merely shrugged to show puzzlement and slid his chair back into place. Galla turned to Cadryc and laid a hand on his arm.
“What is all this?” she said. “Why would Honelg lie?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea, my love.” Cadryc paused, frowning in thought. “I begin to think you were right about that marriage.”
“Oh, do you?” Galla snapped. “It’s a bit late now to see reason.”
Salamander suddenly remembered Honelg’s lady and the way she’d looked mysteriously familiar. Oh, ye gods, Salamander thought. Adranna’s their daughter!
Apparently Gwerbret Ridvar had noticed the messengers’ arrival and heard what they’d had to say. He stood up and strode over, with Oth following after. When they reached the table, Salamander heard Oth say, “but, Your Grace, not here!” Ridvar ignored him.
“My lady,” Ridvar said. “I’m afraid I have some evil news for you.”
The talk and chatter at the tables nearby suddenly died. Salamander could hear the various noble lords shushing their neighbors.
“Indeed, Your Grace?” Galla said.
“Indeed. I received word today that Lord Honelg has turned traitor.”
Galla stared at him, her mouth slack with surprise. The shushing and resulting silence spread across the great hall. Everyone that Salamander could see was leaning toward the gwerbret and straining to hear.
“Your Grace!” Lord Oth kept his voice low. “I thought we’d agreed that silence—”
“You thought it best. I never agreed.” Ridvar turned his head and favored Oth with a cold stare that made the councillor step back a pace. The movement, however, seemed to make Ridvar realize how insulting he’d just been. “And how can I call a council of war,” Ridvar said, “without telling my lords the cause and occasion for it?” All at once he smiled. “Do you truly think we could have kept it secret in the middle of this mob?”
Oth relaxed and laughed, one sharp bark. “True spoken, Your Grace,” he said. “There are servants swarming everywhere.”
True spoken indeed, Salamander thought, and I think me our Ridvar just might turn out well after all.
“Um, Your Grace?” Cadryc sounded ready to burst from frustration. “Kept what secret? What has Honelg—”
“In a moment, my lord.” Ridvar turned back to Lady Galla. “Don’t distress yourself. No one will blame your daughter for the follies of her lord.”
The eavesdroppers’ silence reached the warbands. Those men who’d been drinking slammed stoups and tankards down on their tables and swiveled round on benches and chairs. For a long moment it seemed that no one even breathed. The gwerbret turned toward the crowd.
“Hear this!” Ridvar called out. “I declare Lord Honelg a traitor. He’s a secret worshiper of the false goddess Alshandra, and he’s cast in his lot with the Horsekin.” Ridvar’s voice shook with rage. “I’ll have his head on a pike for this.”
The crowd cheered, but briefly. The whispering started, a little flood of rage and fear spreading through the great hall.
“Gerthddyn!” Ridvar said. “Do you have any idea of why Honelg would turn to this false goddess?”
“I don’t, Your Grace. I’m utterly baffled by it. Although—” Salamander found himself remembering the red-haired lass, swarmed by hungry children. “Although I can see why the farm folk up there would turn to a new goddess. The priests of Bel, the ones who rule that demesne near Honelg’s? I’ve never seen such a greedy lot, half-starving their villagers the way they do.”
“Indeed?” Ridvar said. “Well, since we’ll be riding that way, I’ll look into that as well. Calonderiel was right. We’d best deal with Honelg first.” He turned back to the crowd and raised his voice. “My lords, I’m calling a council of war. We shall meet at sundown.”
Galla shrieked, just once, then clamped her hand over her mouth as if to stifle another. She got up so fast that her chair went over with a clatter. She started to speak, then choked it back, turned, and ran fo
r the staircase.
“My apologies, Tieryn Cadryc,” Ridvar said. “I fear me I did a wretchedly bad job of telling your lady the tidings. By the by, the gerthddyn did find that Horsekin fort.”
“Ye gods,” Cadryc said. “Worse and worse.”
“Your Grace?” Councillor Oth came forward and whispered a few words.
Ridvar wrinkled his nose at him, a sour gesture that reminded Salamander that despite his promise for the future, he was still a lad now. In a moment, though, he regained his dignity. “In fact, Tieryn Cadryc,” Ridvar said, “I owe you an apology. I should have listened when you first came forward with your suspicions.”
“None needed, Your Grace.” Cadryc sounded exhausted. “I see no need to ever mention it again, eh?”
“Done, then.” Ridvar favored him with a gracious nod. “And you have my thanks.”
As soon as she heard Lady Galla scream, Branna leaped up from her seat, then followed her fleeing aunt up the winding staircase. She caught up with her in the corridor at the top, where Galla was leaning against the wall and shaking like the victim of a fever.
“Goddess help!” Branna said. “This is truly loathsome.”
“It is that.” Galla’s voice shook as well. “My poor lass! The children!”
“The gwerbret’s said he’ll absolve her.”
“If she lives through the siege. There’s Honelg’s poor mother, too. She’s so frail.”
“True-spoken. He might have thought of them before he went consorting with false gods.”
Galla started to reply, then burst out sobbing. Branna threw her arms around her aunt and let her weep against her shoulder.
“Here, here,” she murmured, “let’s go to your chamber, away from all the noise and suchlike.”
Galla allowed herself to be led to the chamber. She perched upon the edge of the bed while she tried to wipe her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. Branna poured some water from the jug on the little table into a cup and had her aunt drink a few sips. Galla stared fixedly at the far wall for some while, then handed the cup back to Branna.
“Well, there’s naught left for us but to pray to the true goddess, is there?” Galla paused again, then breathed deeply and allowed herself a sigh. “And alas, I don’t know what we’re going to do now for your wedding. I’d wanted to give you a splendid feast, but the men will need the provisions for the war.”
“My dearest aunt, don’t vex yourself! We don’t need to talk about that now.”
“You may not, but I need to talk about somewhat besides our Adranna.”
“Very well, then. I truly don’t care about the ceremonies of the thing. I’ve got Neb, and that’s all I wanted.”
“How generous you are, dear! Unlike some menfolk we know.” Galla looked at her soggy handkerchief and threw it viciously to the floor. “I think there might be a clean one of these in that wooden chest by the window.”
Branna had just fetched the handkerchief when someone knocked on the door, and she heard Lady Solla’s soft voice calling Galla’s name. Branna hurried over and opened the door to find Solla and Dallandra, still in her borrowed dress, standing just behind her.
“How does our lady fare?” Solla said.
“Reasonably well, dear,” Galla called out. “Do come in, and, how lovely, our guest is with you.”
“I was worried,” Dallandra said. “This whole thing is utterly ghastly.”
Branna ushered them inside. Two chairs stood in the curve of the wall; she moved them near Galla. She herself sat on the broad stone windowsill. With Dallandra there, Branna’s worst fears lifted, leaving her feeling like a nearly-lost child who at last sees her mother hurrying toward her in the crowded marketplace. Although she had no conscious memories of Dalla’s dweomer, she knew that she was in the presence of a woman of great power.
“The men are having their council of war,” Solla said. “My brother’s taken all of his lords up to the chamber of justice, and most of the women have gone off to the women’s hall with Drwmigga. I decided I didn’t feel like sitting there. It’s such a hot day, so airless.”
“It is that,” Galla said. “But it must be hard for you, too, being turned out of the hall that was yours until a few days ago.”
“There’s somewhat of that in it,” Solla said with a rueful little smile. “Most of my things are packed, by the way, so I can leave with you when the time comes. Drwmigga has graciously offered me the loan of a horse cart to take them.”
“Very gracious, indeed.” Branna put venom into her voice. “No doubt she wants to be the only cow in the pasture. You can practically hear her moo in triumph.”
“Branna! How awful of you!” But Solla smiled with a wicked light in her eyes. “Your Neb is sitting in at the council of war. He told me to tell you that he’ll give us a report as soon as he can.”
“Excellent,” Galla said. “But I know what our menfolk are like. It’s going to be a long evening, once they start. Branna, dear, I brought a set of wooden wisdom. Perhaps someone would like to have a game or two.”
“I certainly would,” Solla said, “and I’ll send a page for some Bardek wine. We can have our dinner up here, too, if you’d like that.”
As Branna got up to fetch the game box, she glanced Dallandra’s way. The elven woman was smiling pleasantly, but her eyes seemed to be looking at some view a thousand miles away. All at once Branna felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She’s scrying for danger, Branna thought. There’s someone out there who wishes us harm. Although she couldn’t say how or why, she knew it as surely as she knew that fish have scales.
“Thethingis,” Salamander said, “Honelg’s dun is going to be wretchedly hard to take. A handful of archers on the walls could hold off an army.”
“Assuming they have enough arrows,” Calonderiel said.
“He’s a fearful man, Honelg, and for good reason. I suspect he has arrows by the bushel stowed here and there about the dun.”
Calonderiel swore under his breath in a mix of Deverrian and Elvish. They were walking downhill through Cengarn. All around them the town lay asleep and dark except for the occasional line of candlelight from a shuttered window. Overhead, the drift of stars supplied just enough of a glow for their elven eyesight to find the way. Now and then a dog would bark as they passed. Otherwise silence wrapped the town.
When they reached the city wall, they found the main gates closed, but a yawning guard greeted them and held his lantern high to peer at their faces.
“You must be part of the Westfolk warband,” he said.
“We are indeed,” Calonderiel said. “Can you let us out?”
“I can. The gwerbret sent orders down to open the side gate for you whenever you wanted. Come round here.”
Holding the lantern high, he took them past the little guard house to an oak plank door in the wall. It was bolted twice and barred as well. This side gate proved to be a mere slit between the stones.
“We’re the last,” Salamander said. “So you won’t be bothered again.”
“Ah, good.” The guard nodded in satisfaction. “The prince and his escort came down a while ago. The lady with him—is that the princess?”
“She’s not,” Calonderiel said with something of a snarl in his voice. “She’s my wife.”
“Then you’re a lucky man.” The guard stepped back into the doorway, as if he feared a blow. “Good night, all of you.”
“Wife?” Salamander said once they were out of earshot.
“It’s the only Deverry word that fits at all,” Cal said.
“Or at least, the only one I could think of.”
They went on down to the meadow below, where the dun’s pavilion and the elven tents stood, ghostly in the pale light of the stars. In camp Dallandra, who had changed back to her tunic and leather leggings, and the prince were sitting by a small fire in front of the royal tent. Although most of the Westfolk archers and the men of the Red Wolf warband had turned in for the night, Gerran was still awake, sitting ne
xt to Dar.
When Salamander and Calonderiel joined the group by the fire, Salamander noticed that Cal not only sat down next to Dallandra, but clasped her hand as well. I don’t know why he’s jealous, Salamander thought. He’s the only man I know with the guts to court her, or at least, court her openly, unlike some that I could mention—and where is that little weasel, anyway?
“Where’s Meranaldar?” Salamander said aloud.
“We’ve not left him behind, have we?”
“You didn’t. I was transcribing my notes.” The scribe came out of the tent, then sat down across from the prince.
“I’ve been telling the captain here about the council of war,” Prince Daralanteriel said. “Well, as much as I could sort out of the general noise, anyway. By the gods of both our peoples! How do you Deverry men ever decide anything? I’ve never seen a council with so much shouting, arguing, cursing, and general confusion.”
Gerran laughed and nodded his agreement.
“Fortunately,” Daralanteriel went on, “Prince Voran finally saw fit to call an end to the wrangling.”
“But by then, Your Highness,” Gerran said, “he and the gwerbret knew what every lord in the chamber was thinking. If any of the noble-born are going to cause trouble, they know that, too.”
“Good point,” Daralanteriel said. “Your people seem held together by a web of alliances. They’re so complicated that I can’t say I understand them all. It looks fragile to an outsider.”
“Spiderwebs don’t look like much either, Your Highness, but when a fly blunders in, they hold up well enough.”
“Um, what were they arguing about?” Salamander said. “I thought the gwerbret had already decided to march on Honelg.”
“He had,” Dar answered him. “The questions in dispute were with whom and how many of them. Day after tomorrow, he’ll be taking half his own warband, our archers, the prince’s men, and Cadryc’s warband. The rest of the men will stay in Dun Cengarn on fortguard. The other lords will ride home and get their men and alliances ready for the march on Zakh Gral.”
The Gold Falcon Page 35