The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [158]
“True spoken, but it matters naught. Honelg will never surrender. I’ll wager you coppers to horse apples that he’s prepared to die for his false goddess.”
“He’s gone daft sure enough, then. When he dies, he’ll be no loss to the rhan, but cursed if I want him to take his wife and daughter with him. We need someone to plead for the safety of the women in the dun. Branna wanted to, but her uncle’s forbidden her to ride with the army.”
“That’s a pity. I certainly can’t speak to Honelg, being as I’ve betrayed him, his hospitality, and his goddess all three.”
“But you know a lot about Alshandra, don’t you? How she’s worshipped and all that. I want you to talk to the herald. His name’s Indar. Maybe you can tell him how to convince Honelg that his goddess wants the women safe. Even the daft have reasons for the strange things they do, after all.”
“Now, that is a most excellent suggestion, Gerro. I’ll ask Oth for an introduction straightaway.”
Later that afternoon Gerran saw Salamander and Indar, sitting together at a table in the great hall. Gray-haired Indar was a tall, wiry man who habitually sat slouched in chair or saddle. Now, however, he was leaning forward, elbows on the table, his long narrow face propped up in his long bony hands, listening intently as Salamander talked in his usual animated way. Every now and then Indar would nod, as if signaling the gerthddyn to keep talking. Gerran had no doubt that the herald’s trained memory would store every scrap of Salamander’s lore.
For most of the morning Neb managed to dodge being alone with Branna. He took written notes at the council of war, he found the gwerbret’s scribe and discussed writing materials, he even helped the servants carry the noon meal down to the Red Wolf warband and the Westfolk camped below the dun. Every time he saw Branna during these errands, she would cross her arms over her chest and glare at him. Finally he realized that putting off the inevitable was only making things worse. Just before dinner he gave a serving lass a copper and asked her take a message to Lady Branna, who was in the women’s hall attending upon the gwerbret’s wife.
“My dearest love,” the note ran, “I know you’re angry, but it truly is for the best that you stay behind. I’ll be in our chamber.”
The serving lass trotted off with the note, and Neb went upstairs to wait. He sat on the wide windowsill in their bedchamber and looked down at the ward, where servants were sorting out supplies and loading carts in readiness for the march tomorrow. At the thought of the fighting ahead he felt a weary sort of fear—he himself would be safe, but he knew that he was going to see blood-soaked horrors. Will it be worse than what I saw in Trev Hael? he asked himself. He could remember the stench of the sickroom and his father’s face, pale and gaunt, when Da had tried to speak. “Take care of your mother.” That sentence had come out clear enough, but the next was lost in spasms and the choking sound of a man dying.
“I tried, Da,” Neb whispered aloud. “Forgive me.” Then he shook himself to drive the grief away. He had his answer. The death lying ahead of them all would be neither harder nor easier to see. It would be a different thing altogether.
The chamber door opened with a bang against the wall and Branna strode in, her face set and utterly expressionless. She slammed the door shut, then curtsied.
“And what does my lord and master husband want?” she said.
“Oh, for the sake of the gods!” Neb stood up to face her. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I? If the tieryn had said you could go, I would have agreed, but he asked me—”
“Oh, so the men stick together when they’re disposing of their women’s lives?”
“Who said anything about your life? Except that I’m worried about you losing it.”
“I wouldn’t have been in any danger.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know it better than