The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [77]
“Looking for you. Do you remember when last we met? You told me you’d take me on if I wanted to ride with you. Was that just a jest?”
“It was a jest only because I didn’t think you’d want to leave your noble father’s court, not because I wouldn’t be glad to have you in my troop.”
“Thanks be to the gods, then. A bastard son’s got a shorter welcome than a silver dagger unless he minds every courtesy. I’ve been exiled. It was over an honor duel.”
Caradoc’s eyebrows shot up.
“I heard about that. You killed the youngest son of the gwerbret of Elrydd, wasn’t it? But why would your father turn you out over that? I heard it was a fair fight.”
“It was, and judged so by a priest of Bel, too.” For a moment Branoic had trouble speaking; he felt as if he could physically choke on the injustice. “But it made my father a powerful enemy, and so he kicked me out to appease the misbegotten gwerbret. The whole way north, I was afraid for my life, thinking that Elrydd would have me murdered on the road. But either I’ve thought ill of him unjustly, or else I gave his men the slip.”
“I’d say the latter, from what I remember of His Grace. Well and good, lad, you’re on, but you have to earn this dagger. If we see fighting, you’ll get a full share of the pay, mind, but you’ll have to prove yourself before I have Otho the smith make you a blade. Agreed?”
“Agreed. And my thanks—there’s not a soul in the world to take me in but you.”
For a few minutes they rode in silence. Branoic studied the young prince riding some few yards ahead and wondered what it was that made him seem so unusual. He was a handsome boy, but there were plenty of good-looking men in the kingdom, and none of them had his aura of glamour and power. There were other princes, too, who had his straight-backed self-confidence and gracious ways, but none that seemed to have ridden straight out of an old epic like Maryn. At times, it seemed as if the very air around him crackled and snapped with some unseen force.
“And what do you think of our lord?” Caradoc said quietly.
“Well, he makes me remember some odd gossip I heard down in Eldidd.”
“Gossip?”
“Well, omens and suchlike.”
“Omens of what?”
In a fit of embarrassment Branoic merely shrugged.
“Out with it, lad.”
“Well, about the one true king of Deverry.”
Caradoc laughed under his breath.
“If you stick with this troop, lad, you’ll be leaving Eldidd and Pyrdon far behind. Can you stomach that?”
“Easily. Oh, here—what are you telling me? Will we be riding all the way to Dun Deverry some fine day?”
“We will, at that, but I can promise you a long bloody road to the Holy City.” Caradoc turned in his saddle. “Maddyn, get up here! We’ve got a new recruit.”
Somehow or other, Branoic had missed meeting the bard in his previous encounters with the silver daggers. About thirty-three, he was a slender but hard-muscled man with a mop of curly blond hair, streaked with gray at the temples, and world-weary blue eyes. Branoic liked him from the moment he met him. He felt in some odd way that they must have known each other before, even though he couldn’t remember when or how. All that afternoon, Maddyn introduced him around, explained the rules of the troops, found him a stall for his horse and a bunk when they returned to the dun, and generally went out of his way to make him feel at ease. At the evening meal they sat together, and Branoic found it easy to let the bard do most of the talking.
The other lieutenant in the troop, Owaen, was a different matter altogether. They had barely finished eating when he strode over, his tankard in hand, and Branoic found himself hating him. There was just something about the way that the arrogant son of a bitch stood, he decided, all posturing with his head tossed back, his free hand on the hilt of his silver dagger.
“You!” Owaen snapped. “I see by your blazon that you used to ride for the Eagle clan of Belglaedd.”
“I did. What’s it to you?”
“Naught, except for one small thing.” Owaen paused for an insolent sip of ale. “You’ve got the clan device all over your gear. I want it taken