The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [54]
“Good evening to you, my lady,” Salamander said. “Have you come out to enjoy the night air?”
“I have, truly,” Branna said. “It gets stuffy up in my chamber.”
“Hum, I find myself wondering if perhaps Neb’s chamber grows just as stuffy. Could it be that he’s out here as well, just by coincidence of course, out in the herb garden, say?”
“And would it be any of your affair if he was?”
“None, of course. But if I were you, I’d make sure Gerran didn’t know what you were up to.”
“Gerran is drinking with his men. They won’t stop till they’re all staggering.”
“Love can make a man as drunk as ale does.”
“True spoken, but when he’s drunk on ale, he can’t lift his sword.”
“Nor can he lift much else. I trust Neb is the sober sort?”
“Oh!” Branna caught her breath and blushed. “Do hold your tongue, you chattering elf!”
“Now I wonder,” Salamander said, grinning, “where you got that turn of phrase. That I chatter is a point beyond disputing, but someone else used to call me that, and I think me we both knew her well.”
Branna stared at him for a long moment, then turned in a swirl of dresses and rushed across the ward, heading for the herb garden. Salamander stepped inside the great hall and saw Gerran and his men clustered around a table, wagering furiously on some game or other. Salamander considered joining them, then climbed the staircase instead. Behind him more Wildfolk materialized to follow in a silvery, translucent parade.
In his little chamber Salamander sat on the wide windowsill and looked out over the nighttime dun. Here and there points of light gleamed in a window or bobbed along, a lantern held in someone’s hand. He could distantly hear, like the murmur of a river, the sounds from the great hall. A dog barked out by the stables, then fell silent.
“This could turn nasty,” he remarked to the Wildfolk. “Neb, Branna, and Gerran, I mean.”
The Wildfolk all nodded their agreement.
“But yet I have hope. From everything Dalla’s told me, Cullyn well and truly broke that particular chain of wyrd in the last life he shared with Branna. If Gerran remembers—not that he’ll know he’s remembering, of course—but if he does remember, deep in his mind somewhere, then mayhap the outcome will be a fair one. And if the outcome is foul, then we’ll know that he doesn’t remember Cullyn of Cerrmor’s wisdom.”
The Wildfolk stared at him and solemnly scratched their heads, miming confusion.
“I could have put that more clearly, truly,” Salamander said. “Mayhap it’s time for me to get some sleep.”
The Wildfolk all nodded vigorously, then one at a time, disappeared. Yawning, he took off all his clothes but his loin-wrap and lay down on the mattress. He considered a blanket, but the summer night was still hot. Wrapped in its warmth, he fell asleep.
Salamander woke to the sound of furious words outside his chamber and the pink light of a cloudy dawn beyond his window. He sat up and listened till he could place the voices: Gerran and Mirryn, arguing over Cadryc’s predictable orders to his son and heir.
“You’ve got to rein that temper in,” Gerran was saying. “You cannot challenge your own father to an honor duel, and you know it.”
“It’s all very well for you to talk, Gerro.” Mirryn’s voice shook with rage. “No one’s going to think you’re a coward. Now get your hands off me! I want to go back and tell Father—”
“You’re not going to tell him one word more.”
A pause, a long pause that brought Salamander to his feet, ready to intervene if things turned nasty. He took a few barefoot steps toward the door.
“Oh, very well,” Mirryn said at last. “You’re right, aren’t you? My apologies.”
“I knew you’d see reason eventually.” Gerran sounded vastly relieved that his foreknowledge had proved true. “There’s naught cowardly or womanish about keeping fort guard, not when the valley’s crawling