The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [88]
The other lords all nodded sagely, while Perryn devoutly wished that he had been born a woodcutter. A feud could rage for years, and here he was, honor-bound to ride in it for Nedd’s sake.
After the meal, the lords gathered round the honor table and studied a rough map of eastern Cerrgonney. They drank over it, argued over it, and yelled at each other while Perryn merely listened. He was part of the council only by courtesy to his birth; since he had no warband, he had no right of decision. He stayed until the lords adopted Nedd’s plan of making a surprise attack on the enemy’s line of march, then slipped away, getting a candle lantern from a page and taking it out to the stables. When he found his dapple gray, he hung the lantern on a nail in the wall of the stall and sat up on the manger. The gray leaned his face into Perryn’s chest with a small snort. He gently scratched its ears.
“Well, my friend, I wonder if I’ll live to see the winter, I truly do.”
Blissfully unaware that there was such a thing as a future to consider, the gray nibbled on his shirt.
“At least you’ll be safe and out of it. That’s somewhat to be glad about.”
If Cerrgonney men had fought on horseback, as warriors did in most of Deverry, no amount of honor or obligation would have induced Perryn to ride to war, but since up in that grain-poor province horses were too valuable to slaughter, Cerrgonney men rode to battle but dismounted to fight. Yet even though he knew his friend would be safe, Perryn’s heart ached at the thought of battle. As he did every time he was forced to ride to war, he wondered if he were simply a coward. Doubtless every lord in the province would have considered him one if they’d discovered his true feelings about honor and battle glory, which seemed far less important to him than fishing in a mountain stream or sitting in a meadow and watching the deer graze. At times like these, the old proverb haunted him: what does a man have worth having but his honor? A good bit more, to Perryn’s way of thinking, but he could never voice that thought to anyone, not even Nedd, no matter how much he simply wanted to ride away from killing men he didn’t know in a war that never should have happened in the first place.
“Ah well, my friend, my Wyrd will come when it comes, I suppose. I wonder if horses have Wyrds? It’s a pity you can’t talk. We could have a splendid chat about that, couldn’t we?”
Suddenly he fell silent, hearing someone open the stable door. His silver dagger gleaming in the lantern light, Rhodry strode briskly down the line of stalls.
“Oh, it’s you, my lord. The tieryn’s captain detailed me to keep an eye on the stables, you see, and I heard someone talking.” Rhodry glanced around puzzled. “Isn’t someone else here?”
“Oh, er, ah, well, I was just talking to my horse.”
Rhodry’s eyes glazed with a suppressed mockery that Perryn was used to seeing on men’s faces.
“I see. My lord, can I ask you if we’re riding out tomorrow?”
“We are. Going to make a flank attack, give them a bit of a surprise.”
Rhodry smiled in honest pleasure at the news. He was handsome, strong, and eager for battle, just the sort of man that Perryn was supposed to be and the type who always despised him. Perryn wasn’t sure if he envied or hated the silver dagger—both, he decided later.
On the morrow, the army mustered before dawn in a ward bright with flaring torchlight. The men were silent, the lords grim, the horses restless, stamping, tossing their heads at every wink of light on helm and sword. As usual, Nedd’s warband was the last to take their place in line, shouting at each other and squabbling over who would ride with whom. As he took his place beside his cousin, Perryn noticed Rhodry, smiling to himself as if he were gloating over a beautiful woman.
“We’re going to cut straight across country,” Nedd said. “We’ll need you to scout, Perro.”
“No doubt. None of you could find your way through a copse to a mountain,