The Spirit Stone (3 page)

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 beribboned 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 farsighted 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.