The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [93]
“Well, he’s found one now.” Gerran turned to Branna and bowed. “My lady, I hope you find the tourney to your liking.”
Branna decided that this was one of those situations when lying was a necessity rather than a vice. “Of course, I certainly do,” she said, but she was aware of Neb quirking one eyebrow and smiling as if to accuse her of the lie. Gerran shot the scribe a foul glance, then wandered away to confer with Pedrys’ captain.
Once the second round of combats began, the careful ordering of rank broke down. Tieryn Cadryc and Lord Pedrys both deserted their chairs to pace the sidelines and yell, encouraging their own men and making wa gers on one fighter or another. Money changed hands among the warbands, as well as insults, cheers, and friendly banter. Branna risked looking at Neb and was pleased to see elderly Lord Veddyn slumped against the back of his bench, sound asleep and snoring, in the midst of the general din and clamor. Neb winked at her.
“Branna?” Neb slid over to the end of the bench. “No one’s looking our way.”
“So they’re not.” Branna dropped her voice. “If I slip away, you could follow in a bit.”
“To the roof, then?” he whispered.
“It’ll be too hot with all this sun.”
“The garden?”
She nodded her agreement, and he moved back next to Lord Veddyn.
Branna waited until the current combat came to an end. She got up, stretching, then went round behind Galla’s chair. “Aunt Galla? I’m absolutely roasting in this sun. I’m going to go back to the broch for a little while and rest.”
“Very well, dear,” Galla said. “But you won’t want to miss seeing Gerran and Mirryn spar. They really are quite good, both of them.”
“If I don’t fall asleep, I’ll come back for that, then.” Before Galla could answer, Lady Omaena launched into another complicated question about babies. With smiles all round, Branna left. She walked sedately across the meadow until she could be sure that no one was watching her, then ran the rest of the way.
With the sun low in the sky, the little bench in the herb garden sat in shade from the wall, a welcome relief. Winded from her fast climb, Branna sank onto it and let out her breath in a long sigh. Her gray gnome materialized to sit beside her and dangle its spindly legs over the side.
“It’s too hot,” she said.
It nodded, then popped a finger into its mouth and began to suck on it. With almost everyone down at the tourney, the dun was abnormally quiet, except for the occasional cluck of a chicken or honk of a goose. Now and then the breeze brought her a snatch of conversation from the cook house, where the cook and the scullery maids were putting the last touches on the feast ahead.
While she waited, Branna thought over her last night’s dream, one that grew in significance the more she contemplated it. She was waiting for Nevyn in an underground chamber lit only by firelight. Around the top of the walls ran a strange frieze, a pattern made of circles and triangles, that stopped abruptly in the middle of one wall. She recognized the pattern, she knew she did, but she couldn’t read it, no matter how hard she tried. The sound of footsteps on the gravel path of the garden pulled her away from the dream, but when she looked up, she was half-expecting to see the old man rather than Neb.
“Wretchedly hot!” Neb sat down beside her and pulled at the open throat of his shirt. “I suppose we could go into the great hall. No one else is there.”
“In just a little bit the serving lasses will be in and out,” Branna said. “They need to ready everything for the feast.”
“That’s true. Well, at least there’s a bit of shade here.”
“There is, and I’m glad of it.” Branna paused, then decided she’d best blurt out what she had to say. “I had another of those dreams last night, the ones about Nevyn. He could light a candle by snapping his fingers, too.”
Neb slewed round on the bench and stared at her. He had gone so pale that she could see the blood pulsing in its vessels at his temples.
“Are you afraid?” she said.
“Somewhat.