The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [193]
“My thanks.” Berwynna curtsied, as best she could in her old brigga, simply because she had no idea of what else to do. “I be honored to meet you.”
Dallandra smiled again, then returned to her discussion with the dragon. Eventually the two of them told the others what they’d decided, that everyone who was willing would come to the Ancients’ camp, while those who preferred to camp elsewhere could find another spot, though one close enough for safety’s sake. By then Laz had returned, carrying a bundle wrapped in embroidered cloth.
“I’ll discuss it with my men,” Laz said.
“The Ancients tell me that there were Horsekin raiding on the Arcodd border,” Rori said in Deverrian. “Take no chances.” Rori swung his head Dallandra’s way, but he continued to speak in Deverrian. “Dalla, I smell wyrd in all of this. The man who led the caravan—he died defending it—was Jahdo’s grandson.”
Dallandra tossed up her head like a startled horse, and her mouth framed an O. “Wyrd, indeed,” she said at last. “And an ugly wyrd, at that. My heart aches for Jahdo and Niffa, too.” She shook her head and paused before speaking again. “Laz, we have friends of yours in our camp.”
“I know.” Laz gave her a lazy grin. “I scried for them.”
“Of course.” She considered him for a long moment. “You look as if you’ve met with some painful ill luck.”
“You could say that, truly.” Laz held out his maimed hands and the cloth-wrapped bundle. “Evan the gerthddyn! I believe this belongs to you.”
Berwynna’s newfound uncle strolled over and took the bundle. He unwrapped the rags to reveal something shiny and black, then laughed.
“I never thought to see this crystal again,” Evan said.
“There it is,” Laz said, “and I wish I’d never stolen the accursed thing. We have a fair bit to discuss, you and I.”
“And so we will, tonight, I hope. What about the white one?”
“Lost. It’s at the bottom of Haen Marn’s lake. I’ll explain that, too. I wish I’d never found it, either.”
“Where was it?” Dallandra stepped forward. “I’ve wondered about that for months.”
“In Rinbaladelan, fair lady.” Laz made her a bow. “And therein lies another long tale.”
“Which I very much want to hear, but not out in the middle of nowhere. Ask your men where they’ll camp, Laz. I want to get back to the alar.”
After much discussion, Laz’s men, even Faharn, decided to make a separate camp. They unloaded their pack animals about a quarter of a mile away from the sprawl of Westfolk tents. The remaining Cerr Cawnen men, however, chose to take refuge among the Ancients. Laz watched them leading their stock through the grass till they disappeared among the gaudy tents.
“What about you?” Faharn said.
“I’ll camp here with you all,” Laz said, “but I’m going to go fetch Sidro first.”
As Laz set off through the tall grass, he was considering what he would say to Sidro. He’d been raised in a world where women had the final say over who would be their lovers. If she wanted to keep Pir as her Second Man, he had no real objection, provided they both came with him when he led his men back to the Northlands. As her First Man, however, he was planning on asserting his rights by bringing her back to spend the night in his tent.
Laz had almost reached the camp when he saw Sidro, walking out to meet him. She wore Westfolk clothing, an embroidered shirt and leather leggings. Her raven-dark hair, long enough to trail along her shoulders, gleamed in the sunlight. He stopped walking and let her come up to him, but he could feel his sexual scent spreading out toward her in greeting, his beautiful Sisi, his again at last.
Yet when she drew closer, he noticed that she was carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket. He turned cold—she couldn’t mean it, she really could not mean what that bundle signified to a Gel da’Thae man. She looked frightened, he realized, but when she stopped some three feet from him, she forced out a smile.
“Here.” She shoved the bundle against his chest with shaking hands. “Here are the things we shared in the