A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [15]
“What’s so wrong with you?” Caradoc said abruptly. “Your bowels stopped or suchlike?”
“Oh, hold your tongue!”
“Listen to him! Feisty today, aren’t we?”
“My apologies, Carro. I hate lying at the best of times, and these are the worst. Saying farewell to Clwna, and her and the other women thinking well be back in an eightnight or so—it ached my heart.”
“They’ll have to live with the truth just like the lads will. Listen to me, Maddo. Today we start a ride ordained by the gods themselves. Our petty little troubles are of no moment. None. Do you understand me?”
“I do, at that.” He shivered suddenly, just from the quiet way that Caradoc spoke of such grave things. “Well and good, then. A man’s Wyrd comes when it comes.”
“So it does, and ours is upon us now.”
Maddyn turned in the saddle to look at him and wonder all over again just who Caradoc had been, back in his other life before dishonor sent him down the long road. It occurred to him that at last he was going to find out—if, of course, they all lived long enough to ride through the gates of Dun Cerrmor.
Branoic was surprised at how little ground the silver daggers covered that afternoon. Even though the spring days were short, they could have made some twelve miles before sunset, but instead they stopped for their night’s camp on the banks of the Elaver just some five miles from the dun. Branoic tethered out his horse and Aethan’s while the elder man carried their gear to a campsite and drew them provisions from the pack train. As glad as he was to be out of the dun and riding, Branoic’s mood was dark that evening, and he swore at the horses for ducking their heads and grabbing grass while he was trying to change bridle for halter. He was disappointed, that was all, heartsick that he was stuck in Pyrdon instead of riding behind the true king on his journey to Cerrmor—or so he told himself. Since he’d never been an introspective man, the excuse rang true enough.
When he went back to the camp he found the troop settling in. Some men were spreading out their bedrolls; others were cursing flint and tinder as they struggled to light a fire. He found Maddyn and Aethan by a fire that was already blazing; although no one was sure why, it was common knowledge that fires always lit easily for the bard. As he walked up he felt his heart pounding in the strange way it did lately, a fearful sort of wondering as he looked over the campsite until he saw that Aethan had indeed dumped his gear there along with his own and Maddyn’s. That he would be allowed to camp with them was so welcome, such a relief, really, from his fear that he’d be put somewhere else, that he briefly thought of going elsewhere just to pretend that he didn’t care. Maddyn looked up with an easy smile, and he broke into a jog, drawn by that smile like a thirsty man to water.
“Does your horse need tethering, Maddo? I’ll do it for you.”
“Oh, I’ve already got him out. Are you lads hungry? We’d best eat now, because there might be a bit of a surprise later.”
“A what?” Aethan looked vaguely annoyed. “Talking in riddles again, are you?”
“It’s good for you, makes you exercise your wits. Well, what few wits you have, anyway.”
Aethan threw a fake punch his way and grinned. They had known each other so long that at moments like these Branoic’s heart ached from feeling that he was an outsider, some foreigner who would never know their private language.
“But I’m hungry, sure enough,” Aethan went on. “What about you, Branno? Care to gnaw on some of the king’s stale hardtack?”
“It’ll do, truly. Maybe when we’re raiding we can shag us a barrel of ale to wash this foul stuff down with.”
At that perfectly ordinary remark Maddyn looked sly, but Branoic let it pass. The bard would tell him his secret when