The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [137]
“No need,” the prince said. “Good job, Captain.”
“My thanks, Your Highness. I’m honored you’d think so.”
Voran smiled, Ridvar smiled; then they turned and strolled back to the great hall. Over by the dun gates a subdued Warryc crawled out from under a wagon and stood up, brushing horseshit and mud off his clothes. Gerran walked over to him.
“And what was all that?” Gerran said. “Were you in the middle of it?”
“I was not, Captain,” Warryc said. “But one of the Stag clan riders, a burly fellow with a red beard, grabbed young Clae and smacked him in the face, and him three times the lad’s size. He claimed the lad had dropped somewhat or other on his foot or suchlike. Cursed if we were going to let some stranger harm one of the Red Wolf pages.”
“So you were in the middle of it.”
“Not to say the middle.” Warryc paused for a grin. “Out toward the edge, mayhap.”
Gerran rolled his eyes, considered a reprimand, then merely shrugged. “Well,” Gerran said, “I’m glad enough that someone defended the lad. Just don’t let it happen again, will you? It would ache my heart to have one of my men flogged for causing trouble in a gwerbret’s dun.”
“It would ache a fair bit more of the fellow being flogged than his heart. Warning taken, Captain.”
“Good. Don’t forget it. Now, let’s go in. I need to find a servant to take some food down to our lads. Better yet, help me find Clae. We’ll send him down where that piss-proud bully can’t find him.”
“What’sallthatnoise,I wonder?” Branna sat up on the bed. “It sounds like fighting in the ward.”
Neb murmured a few incomprehensible words, then turned over and went back to sleep. Branna got out of bed, then picked her underdress up off the floor and put it on before she went to the window. When she looked out, she could see the brawl in progress, though the ward was darkening with evening shadows and far too crowded for her to identify the fighters. The sight below reminded her of a pot of oatmeal on a fire, pulsing and bubbling. Like a cooking spoon stirring the porridge, one man cleared his way through only to have the mob close behind him. His red hair made her wonder if it were Gerran, and sure enough, once the mob began to disperse, she recognized him. He’ll get the matter settled, then, she thought. No need to worry.
She lay down again, hoping that Neb would wake up for still more lovemaking, but he slept stubbornly on. Soon enough she fell asleep herself, only to wake suddenly to a night-dark room.
Through the open window she could see the Snowy Road, bright against the sky, and hear the noise from the great hall like a river rushing over stones. She could smell dinner, as well. Her stomach growled and rumbled. She was about to get up when she realized that the chamber was full of Wildfolk. She could hear them rustling, see shapes like living shadows flitting back and forth in the air. She prodded Neb in the ribs.
“Wake up,” she murmured. “Somewhat’s going to happen.”
“Imph.” He sat up in bed, yawned, then glanced around him. “Ye gods, I’ve never seen so many Wildfolk!”
“No more I,” Branna said. “We should make a dweomer light.”
“No need. Look.”
In the center of the chamber a point of silvery glow appeared and began to expand. It turned first into a gleaming sphere, then a cylinder. It hovered, glowing as brightly as twenty lanterns, then lengthened into a pillar of silver light that stretched nearly floor-to-ceiling. All of the Wildfolk skittered to the edges of the chamber and arranged themselves around the walls. Within the pillar the light seemed as solid as smoke, flowing and ebbing only to brighten again in long streamers.
Branna’s gray gnome suddenly materialized on the bed between her and Neb. It did a little dance, laughing soundlessly and pointing at the shimmering pillar.
“Did you bring this?” Branna whispered.
The gnome nodded a yes and sat down, wrapping its skinny arms tight around its bony knees as it stared into