The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [143]
“What’s wrong?” Salamander said.
“Sorry.” Dalla managed to smile. “I was just remembering the siege. The Horsekin had tents set up all around here.”
“This one doubtless springs from an overflow of wedding guests,” Salamander said. “A happier occasion all round.”
“One should hope it’s happier!” Daralanteriel reined his horse up next to Dallandra’s. “Now, I wonder. Should we just set our tents up out here rather than dragging everything up to the dun?”
“I don’t know.” Dalla sounded doubtful. “I’m always so afraid of slighting the Deverry lords. They care so much about honor and courtesy. Maybe we should wait to be told.”
With a shout of greeting, Gerran came striding over, his russet hair gleaming in the sunlight. He touched the prince’s stirrup to acknowledge Dar’s rank, then turned to Salamander.
“It gladdens my heart to see you alive,” Gerran said. “We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.”
“A great many things, few of them good,” Salamander said, grinning. “It’s a very long tale, and I’d best not launch into it now.”
“Fair enough.”
“Let me introduce you,” Salamander went on. “My prince, Daralanteriel, our banadar, Calonderiel, and our dweo—I mean, councillor Dallandra, this is Gerran, captain of Tieryn Cadryc’s warband, otherwise known as the Falcon.”
Gerran bowed to each as they were named. At Gerran’s nickname, Calonderiel’s eyebrows arched in surprise. The others acknowledged the captain with polite murmurs.
Gerran turned back to the prince. “Your Highness, the gwerbret’s servitors were wondering if you’d prefer to set up your tents out here rather than in the dun. Me and my men would be honored to have you and yours among us. We could guard your horses along with our own, too.”
“I would, and my thanks,” Daralanteriel said. “Well, Dalla, there’s our answer. We’ll leave most of the men here to set up camp.”
“And me and my men will be glad to help you,” Gerran said.
Calonderiel urged his horse forward. “I’ll stay behind for now to work things out with the captain here.” He nodded to Gerran, then paused with that oddly surprised expression returning to his face. Gerran looked just as startled by something, or so it seemed to Salamander. “We’ve met before, haven’t we, Captain?” Cal said at last.
“Not that I remember.” But Gerran sounded profoundly uncertain. “Have you ridden our way before, sir?”
“Not to the Red Wolf dun, but I’ve visited Cengarn several times.”
“Ah.” Gerran smiled in sudden understanding. “My foster brother and I were pages here.”
“That explains it, then.”
Salamander glanced Dallandra’s way and found her suppressing a smile. He was willing to wager high that Gerran was remembering Calonderiel from his previous life and not from his childhood at all.
“My thanks, Captain, for your offer of aid,” Dalla said. “My prince, we’d best get up to the dun. Let’s not forget the gwerbret’s wedding present. And remember, everybody—speak Deverrian from now on.”
When Daralanteriel led his much-reduced retinue into Cengarn’s ward, servants ran to meet the man they knew as the Prince of the Westfolk, and pages raced off into the great hall to announce his arrival. Trailed by councillors and servants, Gwerbret Ridvar himself came out to greet the prince just as he and his escort were dismounting. Ridvar seemed to have grown an inch or so since Salamander had last seen him, or perhaps he merely seemed taller with newfound confidence; in new linen shirt with his clan’s device at the yokes, with his dark hair bound round with a fillet of gold, he looked splendid, a true nobleman, as he strode over to bow to the prince.
“Welcome, Your Highness,” Ridvar said, “to my humble dun.”
“My thanks, Your Grace, though humble’s not a word I’d use of Dun Cengarn.” Smiling, Daralanteriel turned and