The Shadow Isle (11 page)

“And what are you doing here?” Gerran said.

“I could ask the same of you, my lord.” Mirryn paused for a grin in his general direction. “You’ve got a higher rank than me now, married as you are, and here your wife’s with child already. I figure that from now on, I’m the captain of my father’s warband and little more.”

“If Solla has a son, I’ll gloat then and not before.” Gerran felt his usual pang of cold fear at the mention of Solla’s pregnancy.
What if she dies?
He shoved the thought away with a toss of his head. “But anyway, it doesn’t matter if you or I or the Lord of Hell call you the captain. What counts is what your father thinks of the matter.”

Not long after they learned exactly that, when Cadryc strode into the great hall. He pulled off his yellow-and-red plaid cloak, tossed it over the back of his chair at the head of the honor table, then stood looking around him with a puzzled frown. When he spotted Mirryn, he walked across to join them. Mirryn got up and turned to face his father. The men gathered around the carnoic game fell silent; those who’d been standing hurriedly knelt. Cadryc waved his hand in their direction to allow them to stand up again, then turned his attention to his son.

“Well, Mirro,” Cadryc said, “what are you doing over here?”

“The Falcon’s going to have a dun of his own soon enough,” Mirryn said. “So I’m the captain of your warband now.”

“Ah.” Cadryc paused for a long moment. “So you are. Carry on with your game, men.” He turned and walked away, leaving Mirryn openmouthed but speechless behind him.

The men of the warband looked as stunned as their new captain. They said nothing, but they kept glancing at one another.
And what will they think of him?
Gerran wondered.
He’s never ridden to war.
Their carefully arranged faces revealed nothing. Mirryn sat down to a profound silence.

“That was easy enough,” Gerran said.

Mirryn nodded and picked up his tankard from the table. The conversation and the wagering resumed, slowly at first, then erupted into cheers from Daumyr’s supporters when his next move won the game.

“Ai!” Salamander said. “I am vanquished, well and truly conquered, routed, and driven from the field!”

“I take it that means you don’t want another game,” Daumyr said.

“Quite right. You’ve beaten me thrice, and my vanity won’t take another blow.” Salamander got up with a grin. “I think I’ll drown my sorrows in some of our lord’s ale.”

Daumyr turned on the bench and made a sketchy bob that might have signified a bow to the two lords.

“Here, Captain,” Daumyr said to Mirryn, “care to give me a game, my lord?”

“I do, indeed,” Mirryn said. “Bring the board up here, will you?”
Good man, Daumyr!
Gerran thought. He decided that he didn’t dare risk acting as if he thought Mirryn needed his backing on his new authority. He went to the honor table and sat down at Cadryc’s left. The tieryn was obviously trying to suppress a grin at the effect he’d just had on his son. Gerran waited until a servant lass had brought Cadryc ale and left again. Carrying his own tankard, Salamander joined them.

“I don’t know if you want my opinion, Your Grace,” Gerran said, “but you made the right choice for your new captain.”

“Good. It gladdens my heart that you agree.” Cadryc frowned into his tankard. “No doubt the lad will have plenty of chances to prove himself, with the cursed Horsekin prowling around.” He reached into the tankard and pulled out a bit of straw, which he tossed onto the floor before continuing. “I just hope it’s not too soon.”

The tieryn and the gerthddyn exchanged a significant glance.

“Um, well, Your Grace,” Gerran said, puzzled, “the sooner he gets a chance to draw his first blood, the better.”

“I know that. Wasn’t what I meant.” Cadryc glared at his ale again, as if suspecting it of harboring dark secrets.

“If there’s more straw in that, we should send one of the lasses to tell Cook.”

“Um? Oh, true spoken, but it should be all right.” Cadryc took a long swallow. “Naught wrong with it now.”

“If you don’t mind me shoving an oar in,” Salamander said, “Mirryn needs to marry, and soon.”

“True spoken,” Cadryc said. “And I hope to the gods he sires more sons than I did!”

“Does Lady Galla have a match in mind?” Salamander asked.

“She’s doing her best to find one. That’s the trouble with being out here on the wretched border, with the noble-born so thin on the ground. I don’t particularly want him marrying a common-born lass, but who else is there, eh?”

“Admittedly the choice is limited.” Salamander glanced at Gerran, as if inviting him to comment.

Gerran shrugged. He had no ideas on the subject.

“Might as well leave all that to the womenfolk,” the tieryn said. “Now, Gerro, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about the Falcon clan’s new dun. Cursed if I know who’s going to pay for it. You can’t just throw a few stones together like a farmer, eh? You’ll need a proper master mason from Trev Hael to plan the thing.”

“Well,” Gerran said, “my wife tells me that her brother owes her a fair amount of hard coin—an inheritance from an uncle, I think she said—but I’d hate to use that.”

“You may have to. We don’t live in the best of times, lad.” Cadryc paused for a long swallow of his ale. “We’ve got to get men and defenses out into the Melyn Valley as soon as we can. I doubt me if the Horsekin will have the stomach for raiding this summer, but sooner or later, they’ll come back. I’ve been thinking about our new overlord. The coin should come from him.”

“Do you think he has it?”

It was Cadryc’s turn for the shrug. Salamander heaved a mournful sigh.

“Do we even know where he is?” Gerran went on. “I swore to Prince Dar gladly, but ye gods, the Westfolk could be anywhere out in the grasslands. All I’ve ever heard is that they ride north every summer.”

“That will have to do, then, eh? Sooner or later he’s bound to ask us for dues and taxes, and we’ll find out then.”

Gerran looked at Salamander and raised an eyebrow, but the gerthddyn merely buried his nose in his tankard. Since they couldn’t speak openly of dweomer in front of the tieryn, Gerran let the matter drop.

Cadryc and Gerran weren’t the only men wondering where Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands might be. A few days later messengers turned up at Cadryc’s gates, two road-dusty men riding matched grays and leading two more mounts behind them. The extra horses identified them as speeded couriers, and their tabards sported the royal gold wyvern of Dun Deverry.

One-armed Tarro, who’d been watching the gates that afternoon, showed them directly into the great hall. When Gerran realized who they were, he sent a page off to find his wife, one of the only two people in the dun who could read. The messengers knelt at Tieryn Cadryc’s side. One of them proffered a silver tube, sealed at both ends with gold-colored wax.

“From Prince Voran of Dun Deverry, Your Grace,” he said. “Humbly requesting a favor should Your Grace be willing.”

“Very well.” Cadryc took the message tube from him. “Go sit with my men. A lass will bring you ale, and tell her if you’d like a meal to go with it.”

“Our humble thanks, Your Grace.”

Both men rose and strode away to the far side of the hall. Cadryc scowled at the messages in his hand.

“You know, Gerro,” he said, “there was somewhat about the way that fellow spoke to me, so carefully, like, that troubled my heart. I was cursed glad to get out from under Gwerbret Ridvar’s overlordship last autumn. It was leave or rebel, truly. I know you agreed. It was good of Prince Dar to take us on. But—” He hesitated, groping for words. “Ah, by the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell! I don’t know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Gerran said. “We live outside of Deverry now, don’t we? We’re not vassals of the high king and the princes any more, so Voran has to ask, not demand. We might as well be Westfolk ourselves.”

“That’s it!” Cadryc grinned, then let the grin fade. “I knew that, of course, when we swore to Dar. But somehow I hadn’t quite grasped it. I have now.”

“I still wonder why he got the gwerbret to let us go. You’d think the royal line would want as many vassals as it can hold.”

“Ah, that’s the issue, lad! As they can hold, but they can’t hold a blasted one of us if we can’t hold our land for them. The Melyn Valley’s too far west. I’ll wager the high king knows it’d just be a wound on the kingdom, bleeding coin and men.”

“So he’ll let Prince Dar do the bleeding instead.”

“Just that.” Cadryc saluted him with his tankard. “But with all those archers he has, the wound won’t be a big one.”

When Solla arrived at the table of honor, Cadryc broke the seals on the tube and pulled out the letter inside, then handed it to her. She sat down in the chair to his right and unrolled the parchment to look it over.

“Just read it out,” Cadryc snapped, then ducked his head in apology. “Well, if you would, my lady.”

“Of course.” Solla began: “To his grace, Tieryn Cadryc of the Westlands, and his lords of the Melyn Valley, I, Prince Voran of Dun Deverry, send greetings. I have news of some import for your overlord, Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands. Alas, I know not where he might be or where I might meet with him. If Your Grace should know, would he be so kind as to send me an answer by the messengers who have brought him this letter? I am currently residing at Gwingedd in Cerrgonney, but I plan to continue on to Arcodd as the spring progresses. I will be residing there for some while, as I have every intention of demanding some legal redress against Govvin, priest of Bel, for the insults he tendered me during last summer’s campaigns. If his highness Daralanteriel could join me there, I should be most gratified.” Solla glanced up. “The rest is all a formal farewell. He never says what this thing of great import is.”

“Blast him!” Cadryc muttered. “No doubt we won’t be able to pry anything out of those messengers, either.”

“They may not know,” Gerran said. “I doubt if it’s his action against Govvin. He wouldn’t need to consult Prince Dar about that.”

“Huh!” Cadryc said with a snort. “I wonder what the high priest down in Dun Deverry will think?”

“Knowing the prince, Your Grace,” Solla said, “I’d wager that he’s already brought the high priest round to his side.”

“Most like. Well, I don’t know where our Prince Dar is, and I don’t know how in the hells we’re going to find him, either.”

Gerran glanced around and saw Salamander, lurking behind a nearby pillar, convenient for eavesdropping.

“Leave it to me.” Gerran got up from his chair. “I’ve got an idea.”

When Salamander saw Gerran walking his way, he headed for the back door of the great hall. He knew that Gerran would follow him down to the dun wall, where they could have a little privacy away from the clutter of the ward. It was odd, he reflected, that Gerran would have so few qualms about calling upon dweomer, when most Deverry lords refused to admit that such a thing could even exist. Odd or not, he was glad to dispense with the usual verbal fencing and insinuations.

“I take it you want me to find out where Daralanteriel is,” Salamander said.

“Just that,” Gerran said. “Can you?”

“Easily.”

Salamander glanced up at the sky, where toward the west a few clouds drifted against the crystalline blue, and let his Sight shift to thoughts of Dar and the royal alar. He saw them immediately, a long line of riders followed by herds of horses, flocks of sheep, horses laden with packs and more dragging travois, dogs, children on ponies—all the usual straggling untidiness of Westfolk on the move. All around them stretched grassland.

“Somewhere west of Eldidd,” Salamander said. “I can’t tell exactly where, I’m afraid, because they’re out in open country.”

“Is there anything but open country west of Eldidd?” Gerran said.

“There’s not, and that, indeed, is the problem. Here, give me a while, and I may be able to tell you more.”

“Well and good, then, and my thanks.”

They walked back inside together, but Salamander left the lord at the table of honor and hurried upstairs to his wedge-shaped chamber high up in the broch. He barred the door, then sat down on the wide stone sill of the window. The sharp west wind drifted in, bringing with it the scent of the stables below. Salamander rummaged under his shirt, brought out a pomander, made of an apple dried with Bardek spices, and inhaled the scent.

From his perch he could see over the stables and the dun wall both to the meadows beyond, pale green with the first grass. The clouds had drifted a little farther toward zenith and grown larger as well. He focused on the white billows and thought of Dallandra. He saw the royal alar again, stopped in a swirl of riders and animals. Some of the men had dismounted and were strolling toward the various travois. Apparently they were going to set up the tents. In the vision Salamander realized that the western sky had already clouded over. Some distance from the alar ran a river. It looked to him like the Cantariel, but since it wound through flat meadowland as so many rivers did, out in the grasslands, he couldn’t be sure. Dallandra was standing at the riverbank and watching muddy water flow. He sent his mind out toward hers.

It took her some moments to respond. He could pick up her emotional state, a blend of annoyance and physical discomfort. Finally, she acknowledged him with a wordless sense of welcome and a wave of one hand.

“Are you ill?” Salamander thought to her. “Have you been hurt?”

He focused in on the image of her face. She looked pale, and dark smudges marred the skin under her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m merely pregnant, and I spent the day on horseback. It’s not a happy combination.”

“I can easily contact you later—”

“No, no, I’ve been meaning to speak with you. I need to ask you something. It’s about Nevyn. You knew him well, didn’t you?”

“I certainly did, ofttimes to my severe distress and humiliation. The old man had the horrid habit of always being right, especially when it came to my faults, flaws, mistakes, and general ill-doings.”

He could feel Dallandra’s amusement as clearly as he would have heard her laughter had they been together. “Was he stubborn?” she said.