The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [156]
Down by the dun gates she met Gerran, who seemed to be heading into town. He paused and greeted her with a friendly “good morrow.”
“And the same to you,” Branna said. “Where are you going?”
“Down to the camp in the meadows. His grace is sending off a message.”
“To Mirryn, I’ll wager.”
“Right you are,” Gerran said with a wry smile. “He’s not going to like it much, but he needs to know we won’t be back as soon as we’d planned.”
“Does it tell him why?”
“It does, and he’s going to be furious, being left out once again.”
“Well, it’s for his own good, I suppose. He’ll be safer because of it.”
“Oh, here, never tell him that!” Gerran said. “He feels dishonorable enough as it is.”
“I’d never tell any fighting man that, fear not.”
“Good.” With a nod her way, Gerran turned and strode out the gates.
Branna watched him go, but she was thinking of Mirryn. All at once she knew that if he rode to this battle, he’d die and leave his father without an heir. I’d best find Salamander or Dalla, she thought. They could tell her the origin of her sudden certainty, or so she hoped.
Gerran sent two Red Wolf men off with the message, then returned to the dun to look for Calonderiel. Once they’d gotten the wedding out of the way—Gerran considered the festivities a delay and a nuisance—the warbands and servants could finish the preparations for the march north. Even though Ridvar was taking only half of his own men, what with the escorts brought by the two princes and the Red Wolf warband, the army would amount to nearly two hundred men against Honelg’s handful of riders. If it weren’t for the dun walls and the archers, the battle would have been a slaughter. But of course, Honelg did have archers, and good ones at that. Gerran wanted to know how many bowmen the Westfolk had with them, and how skilled they were, to counter this grim reality.
The banadar wasn’t in the great hall. One of the pages had seen him walking in the general direction of the stables. Gerran was heading that way when he came upon Branna and Neb, talking together behind one of the storage sheds—or, more precisely, arguing. Although they kept their voices low, Neb had his arms crossed over his chest, and Branna was waving her hands in the air to emphasize some point she was making. As Gerran walked up, they both fell silent.
“What’s all this?” Gerran said.
“A stupid idea,” Neb said.
“Oh, hold your tongue!” Branna said. “Gerro, I want to ride north with the warband when you go. Someone has to be there to beg Honelg to let Adranna and the other women leave the sieged dun. I’ll need to take care of Adranna and little Trenni once they’re out, too. He wouldn’t dare harm a supplicant kinswoman, not if he wants any of the gods to ever favor him again. Neb says that Dallandra will be there, but Honelg won’t listen to her. She’s one of the Westfolk, and Salamander told me that Alshandra’s people hate them.”
“True spoken,” Neb said, “but—”
Branna ignored him and went on, “With Dalla there, it’s not like I’ll be the only woman in camp.”
Neb shot her a dark look. “I’ll wager you agree with me, Gerro,” Neb said. “This is a scatterbrained scheme if I ever heard one!”
“I don’t, and it’s not,” Gerran said. “Here, Neb, you’re her betrothed, and you’ll be riding with us. The tieryn needs a scribe to write out messages and the like. So she’ll be safe enough, with you and me to look after her.” He glanced at Branna. “I’ll speak with your uncle, if you’d like.”
“I would.” Branna turned to him and grinned.