The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [39]
The tieryn and the gerthddyn exchanged a significant glance.
“Um, well, Your Grace,” Gerran said, puzzled, “the sooner he gets a chance to draw his first blood, the better.”
“I know that. Wasn’t what I meant.” Cadryc glared at his ale again, as if suspecting it of harboring dark secrets.
“If there’s more straw in that, we should send one of the lasses to tell Cook.”
“Um? Oh, true spoken, but it should be all right.” Cadryc took a long swallow. “Naught wrong with it now.”
“If you don’t mind me shoving an oar in,” Salamander said, “Mirryn needs to marry, and soon.”
“True spoken,” Cadryc said. “And I hope to the gods he sires more sons than I did!”
“Does Lady Galla have a match in mind?” Salamander asked.
“She’s doing her best to find one. That’s the trouble with being out here on the wretched border, with the noble-born so thin on the ground. I don’t particularly want him marrying a common-born lass, but who else is there, eh?”
“Admittedly the choice is limited.” Salamander glanced at Gerran, as if inviting him to comment.
Gerran shrugged. He had no ideas on the subject.
“Might as well leave all that to the womenfolk,” the tieryn said. “Now, Gerro, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about the Falcon clan’s new dun. Cursed if I know who’s going to pay for it. You can’t just throw a few stones together like a farmer, eh? You’ll need a proper master mason from Trev Hael to plan the thing.”
“Well,” Gerran said, “my wife tells me that her brother owes her a fair amount of hard coin—an inheritance from an uncle, I think she said—but I’d hate to use that.”
“You may have to. We don’t live in the best of times, lad.” Cadryc paused for a long swallow of his ale. “We’ve got to get men and defenses out into the Melyn Valley as soon as we can. I doubt me if the Horsekin will have the stomach for raiding this summer, but sooner or later, they’ll come back. I’ve been thinking about our new overlord. The coin should come from him.”
“Do you think he has it?”
It was Cadryc’s turn for the shrug. Salamander heaved a mournful sigh.
“Do we even know where he is?” Gerran went on. “I swore to Prince Dar gladly, but ye gods, the Westfolk could be anywhere out in the grasslands. All I’ve ever heard is that they ride north every summer.”
“That will have to do, then, eh? Sooner or later he’s bound to ask us for dues and taxes, and we’ll find out then.”
Gerran looked at Salamander and raised an eyebrow, but the gerthddyn merely buried his nose in his tankard. Since they couldn’t speak openly of dweomer in front of the tieryn, Gerran let the matter drop.
Cadryc and Gerran weren’t the only men wondering where Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands might be. A few days later messengers turned up at Cadryc’s gates, two road-dusty men riding matched grays and leading two more mounts behind them. The extra horses identified them as speeded couriers, and their tabards sported the royal gold wyvern of Dun Deverry.
One-armed Tarro, who’d been watching the gates that afternoon, showed them directly into the great hall. When Gerran realized who they were, he sent a page off to find his wife, one of the only two people in the dun who could read. The messengers knelt at Tieryn Cadryc’s side. One of them proffered a silver tube, sealed at both ends with gold-colored wax.
“From Prince Voran of Dun Deverry, Your Grace,” he said. “Humbly requesting a favor should Your Grace be willing.”
“Very well.” Cadryc took the message tube from him. “Go sit with my men. A lass will bring you ale, and tell her if you’d like a meal to go with it.”
“Our humble thanks, Your Grace.”
Both men rose and strode away to the far side of the hall. Cadryc scowled at the messages in his hand.
“You know, Gerro,” he said, “there was somewhat about the way that fellow spoke to me, so carefully, like, that troubled my heart. I was cursed glad to get out