The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [35]
“Who knows?” Calonderiel shrugged. “But we might as well plan for the worst. Which reminds me. We need to send messengers to Braemel. We’re going to need every ally we have. Huh!” Cal paused to shake his head and smile. “I remember how angry I was when that Horsekin woman—Zatcheka, wasn’t it?—arrived to visit you.”
“You were even angrier when I went to Braemel to visit her daughter.”
“Yes, I was. Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
“You?” Dallandra laid her hand on her forehead and feigned shock. “Wrong?”
“I deserve that, I suppose,” Cal said, glowering. “But I’m glad now that you know the Gel da’Thae and their ugly language, too. Think Braemel will send us aid?”
“Yes, I do. They’re as afraid of the wild Horsekin as we are. Never forget that. They may all look alike to us, but the Gel da’Thae see themselves as very different from the tribal Horsekin.”
“Good.” Calonderiel stared into the fire, his mouth working as he thought things through. Eventually he looked up. “Did Ebañy have any other news?”
“Yes, but only of a personal sort.”
Calonderiel waited expectantly. When she said nothing more, he picked a stick up from the ground and began shredding the bark with a fingernail. Dalla longed to tell him her news, that two powerful dweomermasters had been reborn close at hand, that perhaps they might recover the lore and the power it gave them quickly, in time to aid the People in their battle with the Horsekin. But he knew nothing of the great secret, that souls lived many lives, and she was forbidden by her vows to tell anyone unless they asked her outright.
Eventually Cal tossed the stick onto the fire and looked up. “Do you remember Cullyn of Cerrmor?” he said.
“Jill’s father? I never met him, but I certainly know who he was. Why?”
“I was just remembering a time long long ago, when Cullyn was the captain of another lord’s warband, and we were drinking together. I saw an omen, or felt it, or something like that.”
“And it was?”
“That someday we’d ride together in a war, an important war, the most significant one we’d ever fight.” He tossed the stick into the fire and looked at her. “When he died, I realized that the omen must have been some silly imagining on my part.” He paused to glare at the fire as if it had offended him. “It’s a pity, too, because I’d love to have his sword on our side now. Ye gods! We’d better go tell the prince.” Calonderiel stood up. “Trust Ebañy to be a bird of ill omen!”
But I’ll wager you were right about Cullyn, Dallandra thought. The pity is that I can’t tell you so. Suddenly she felt so cold, so frail, that she could barely speak. She started to get to her feet, but she staggered and nearly fell. Calonderiel caught her by the shoulders and steadied her.
“Are you ill?” he said.
“No, it’s just the omens. I feel omens round us, thick as winter snow. I’ll be all right in a bit.”
“Dalla, Dalla, you pour out your life for us, don’t you?”
She could see genuine concern in his dark violet eyes, a compassion far different from his usual romantic longing. When he laid the back of a gentle hand against her cheek, she let it rest there for a moment before she turned away.
“I’ll be all right,” she repeated. “We have to go tell the prince.”
Ever since his father’s death some three years previously, Daralanteriel was technically a king, the overlord of the legendary Seven Cities of the far west, but since their ruins had lain abandoned for over a thousand years, everyone referred to him as a prince. It seemed more fitting to save the title of king for a man who had something to rule. Even so, Daralanteriel tran Aledel dar, Prince of the Seven Cities and Ranadar’s Heir, traveled with a retinue these days. Along with a hand-picked group of sword warriors, Dallandra with her dweomer and Calonderiel with his band of archers kept the royal family constant company. If the Horsekin should raid, they’d find the prince well guarded.
Daralanteriel’s tent, the largest in the Westlands, dominated the center of the camp. The deer hides that covered the wood frame had been