The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [142]
“Oh, don’t drivel! Of course it’s important.”
Salamander wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then grinned with his usual ease. “At times you do revert to Nevyn-hood, don’t you?”
They shared a laugh, and the moment was over, but Neb realized it had been as important for him as it was for Salamander.
“There’s only one thing against this idea,” Neb said. “I don’t want to give up my dweomer studies.”
“Why would you have to? The question, my dear friend, is what you’re going to do with the dweomer you know, not whether or not you know dweomer. You’ve just demonstrated that the two can go together quite nicely.” Salamander grinned at him. “Let the rest of us chattering fools look for omens and the like.”
“Here, I owe you an apology for calling you that.”
“Oh, don’t vex yourself over it. I’ve provoked many a nastier comment from others in my life.”
They shared another laugh. Laughing made Neb realize that for the first time in months, he felt not merely happy but free.
Neb wasn’t the only person in the dun who was thinking in terms of apologies. At sunset, the dun assembled for a victory dinner in the great hall. Salamander had just taken a seat next to Lord Blethry when a page trotted over to him.
“Gerthddyn,” the lad said, “Gwerbret Ridvar wants to talk with you.”
“Indeed?” Salamander got up and glanced over at the table of honor, empty at the moment. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs in his chambers,” the page said. “I’ll take you there.”
Blethry quirked an eyebrow and shrugged, making it clear that he had no idea why the summons had arrived. Salamander set down his goblet and followed the page.
Gwerbret Ridvar’s private quarters lay on the third floor of the main broch, just above the women’s hall. He received Salamander in an outer chamber, a generous wedge of a room hung with tapestries on the wicker walls that divided it from the bedchamber beyond. Ridvar sat in a cushioned chair in front of the hearth, where a cluster of candles glimmered instead of a fire. In the soft dim lighting his face looked so smooth that it was hard to think of him as anything but a handsome child. Salamander bowed and knelt in front of him on a soft Bardek carpet.
“My wife tells me you can read and write,” Ridvar said. “What I want to know is how well you can keep a secret.”
“Very well when I have to, Your Grace,” Salamander said. “The tales I tell in the marketplace are all completely untrue, after all. The truths I tend to keep to myself.”
Ridvar smiled, but briefly. “My wife also thinks I shouldn’t worry about keeping this secret. I want you to write a message to my sister, Lady Solla, apologizing for the way I treated her in the past.”
“A very noble desire, Your Grace.”
“Mayhap.” Ridvar shrugged the flattery away. “Oth was a grand one for little lies, you see. When a coin disappeared or suchlike, he always had me thinking that Solla might have taken it. That’s why I didn’t give her a dowry. I thought she’d already gathered one on her own.” He moved uneasily in his chair. “Somehow or other, I just don’t want to have my own scribe write that letter. He can’t keep secrets, not when he’s among the servants, at least.”
Salamander made a sympathetic-sounding noise.
“And,” Ridvar went on, “I wanted to invite her to come here and tend her husband if she wished, as my guest of course. I understand that he’s not supposed to ride for some while.”
“Just that, Your Grace. The chirurgeon was adamant.”
Much to Salamander’s relief, Ridvar merely nodded rather than asking who the chirurgeon in question might be.
“I’ll gladly write your message, Your Grace,” Salamander continued. “It will be an honor to serve you.”
“Very well.” Ridvar stood up. “On the morrow, I’ll leave the table after the morning meal. Follow me up here, and bring what you need.”
“I shall, Your Grace.” Salamander rose and bowed low. “My honor.”
You arrogant cub! Salamander thought as he was leaving. Not a word of thanks to someone who’s not even one of your retainers!