The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [173]
“Well, there they go,” Dallandra said. “I suppose you’d like to know what all this is about.”
“If you’d be so kind, truly,” Neb said. “Ye gods, I feel—I’m astounded—I never thought I’d see such things!”
“I suggest you get used to it. You’re going to be seeing a good many stranger ones, and quite soon now, too.”
Apparently, most of the army shared his fearful bewilderment. As they walked back to the encampment, no one said a word to them. Most of the men they passed stared gape-mouthed and crossed their fingers in the sign of warding against witchcraft. Some others stepped back and rushed off to be busy elsewhere. A few of the braver ones did bow to Dallandra, and Gerran came to meet her.
“My lady.” Gerran bowed as well. “Prince Daralanteriel tells me that you’d like our scribe to move over to your camp.”
“If the tieryn agrees,” Dallandra said.
“I asked him, and he does. He owes you for the safety of his womenfolk, he told me. We were just wondering why.”
“Do you really need to ask?” Dallandra caught Gerran’s gaze with her own. “Branna told me about the squabble between you and Neb.”
“Oh.” Gerran swallowed heavily, but his voice stayed perfectly calm. “I see.”
“Good. Still, you can tell the tieryn that I’ll need help when it comes to tending any wounded Westfolk after the battle. Our bodies heal differently from yours, and I want to start training Neb.”
“I see,” Gerran repeated. “Neb, I’ll help you carry your gear over.”
“My thanks,” Neb said. “I didn’t bring much with me, but I do have the horse and its gear, too.”
The Westfolk had made their camp at a slight distance from the main clutter of tents, wagons, piles of horse gear, and the like. Neb would have a place in the tent shared by Calonderiel’s archers. Neb and Gerran put Neb’s gear inside at a vacant spot near the door. With a quick bow, Gerran left them, striding back to his own camp. Dallandra sat Neb down inside her own tent, and there, in safe privacy, she explained why she’d summoned the dragon.
“Not a word of this to your lord or any of the lords,” she finished up. “They need to surround the dun and ensure that Honelg won’t be sending any more messengers. I don’t want them rushing off to the Westlands.”
“Very well, then,” Neb said. “I take it Salamander can scry the messengers out because he’s seen them before.”
“True-spoken. Here! Did you just remember that?”
“I did. It’s been interesting, the last few days. I’ve found bits and pieces of lore coming back to me at odd moments. I’m cursed glad, too. I want to be worthy of Branna, after all.”
“I’m quite sure you already are.” Dallandra gave him a smile. “Now, listen carefully. I think we’re being spied upon by a particular kind of dweomerman, and perhaps one of Alshandra’s priestesses can see us as well. I want you to stay on your guard. If you ever have the slightest sensation that might mean someone’s trying to scry you out, tell me straightaway. I don’t care how silly or small you think it is. Tell me anyway.”
“I will. You needn’t worry about that.”
Salamander found that riding on dragonback was a much greater adventure than he’d anticipated, and most assuredly less comfortable. Like all children raised among the Westfolk, he had learned to stay on a horse so early that he couldn’t remember not knowing how to ride. He’d been assuming, therefore, without really focusing on the assumption, that he could easily adjust to riding on Arzosah.
He was, of course, quite wrong. To an observer on the ground, she seemed to fly steadily and straight, but in fact the beating of her enormous leathery wings produced a rocking motion, a quick lift up and then a sink down. She stirred up quite a wind, too, forcing him to hunker down to find shelter behind the spiky scales of her crest. They’d traveled a good many miles before he learned how to roll with her motion. Still, his discomfort was a small price to pay for her speed. When he looked down, he saw the countryside moving far below as