The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [125]
“How she feels isn’t worth a pig’s fart if her brother’s ill-disposed. He can gain an alliance by marrying Solla to the right lord. Women like her marry to please their clan, not themselves.”
Neb started to reply, then paused, his mouth half-open, his eyes narrow, as if something had startled him. Gerran caught his mood—he assumed, at least, that he’d been affected by Neb’s mood. That old proverb, so common, suddenly seemed to hold a grave meaning, to resonate in the warm summer air like an omen of wyrd. Neb shrugged with a twitch like a fly-stung horse, and the moment passed.
“If Ridvar were so eager to gain an alliance,” Neb continued, “he’d have made her a good match years ago. There’s ill feeling between the pair of them. Why else does he treat her like a servant in her father’s dun? I’ve no idea what caused it, but you can see it between them, and her with no one to lean on or to protect her.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Why else, or so Branna tells me,” Neb went on, “would Solla appeal to our lady Galla to give her a place as a servingwoman? It doesn’t sound to me like she’s got some grand match in the offing.”
“Huh. It doesn’t to me either.”
“Why, just the other day I saw her working in the dun garden, down on her knees like a servant.”
“What? You mean the kitchen garden?”
“Well, nearly that bad. She’s planted some roses, and she was tending them. But still, it’s a sad thing to see such a lovely lass so unhappy!”
“It is, truly. Huh. Well, scribe, you know, I’ll have to think about all of this.”
Neb smiled, well-pleased and a bit sly. With a wave of his hand he hurried off, heading to the broch, which he entered by the door on the honor side. He’s bold as brass! Gerran thought. Gerran followed more slowly, and he went in by the commoners’ door. He still came face-to-face with Lady Solla, however, over by the servants’ hearth, where she was giving a pair of kitchen lasses complicated orders about a barrel of dark ale.
As he watched, Gerran realized that first, her hazel eyes were indeed beautiful, and second, that they had dark smudges under them. Her flawless skin was more than a little pale. She’s been working too hard, he thought, and all for that ingrate’s wedding. When he bowed to her, she tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear before she spoke.
“Good morrow, Captain,” Solla said.
“And a good morrow to you, my lady,” Gerran said. “I’ve heard that you’ll be riding back with us.”
“I will, indeed. I’ll be staying for some while.” Solla pushed out a brave little smile.
“Only for a while?”
“Well, mayhap my brother might consider finding a marriage for me once he’s less distracted.” The smile wavered, but she managed to keep it. “I’m quite pleased that Galla’s willing to shelter me in the meanwhile.”
“I’m getting above myself, no doubt, but I’m pleased as well. Forgive me if I’ve offended you.”
“Offended me?” The smile turned genuine. “Why would that offend me?”
She started to say more, then blushed. Gerran realized that no one had ever looked at him before with the intensity she was displaying, all wide eyes and soft smile, a gentle flattery that warmed his blood like mead. Ye gods, he thought. That cursed scribe was right!
“I’ve been told that I fret too much about my birth,” Gerran went on. “It’s far below yours.”
“I’ve always seen you as Tieryn Cadryc’s foster son. I don’t mean to dishonor your real father’s memory, but he matters not to me.”
“No insult taken, I assure you.”
She smiled again, and he was shocked to realize that suddenly he could think of things to say, as if she were an entirely different kind of female than any he’d ever encountered before.
“It’s a pleasant afternoon,” Gerran said. “I hear that there’s a garden in this dun, and that you planted roses in it.”
“So I did. Would you like to see them?”
“I would, my lady, if you’d not mind showing them to me.”
“I should like to.”
When she stood still rather than heading for the door, Gerran realized that there was something more that he was supposed to do at this point. Solla ended the awkward