The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [73]
“You’re in labor,” he said.
“I am, but it’s early yet. I—oh! curse it all!”
Her water broke, a sudden gush that soaked her leggings and the saddle both. The mare snorted, tossed her head, and might have bucked had Pir not laid a hand on her neck. She steadied down immediately.
“Sidro!” Pir bellowed. “Come quick!”
Calonderiel came galloping back with her. Up at the head of the line of march, Prince Dar called out something—Dallandra wasn’t quite sure what—but she did see a single rider peel out of line and head at a gallop for the Red Wolf’s gates.
“It’s just started,” Dalla gasped in Elvish. “I can make it to the dun.”
So she did, but barely. As the royal procession straggled in through the dun gates, Dallandra saw Lady Galla on the steps of the broch, yelling orders at her servants. Calonderiel caught Dallandra as she slid down from her saddle, only half voluntarily.
“I can walk,” Dallandra gritted her teeth as pain swept through her.
“No, you can’t.” Calonderiel picked her up and, swearing under his breath, carried her into the broch.
As far as Gerran could tell, every woman in the dun, except for the lowly servant lasses, rushed upstairs after Dallandra to help with the birth. Exalted Mother Grallezar followed more slowly, her arms full of saddlebags. While the rest of the Westfolk made camp outside the gates, Prince Daralanteriel joined Gerran and Cadryc at the honor table. Not long after, Calonderiel came down to sit with them as well.
“I’ve been told to leave her alone,” Calonderiel said. “At least they don’t mind me waiting down here. When Maelaber was being born, the women nearly chased me out of camp. I suppose I was a little bit unreasonable at the time, though.”
“There’s naught we can do, after all. I know it from bitter experience, lad,” Cadryc gestured at a servant lass. “Mead for our guests!”
“Why bitter?” Calonderiel said.
“My elder son died before I could even fetch the midwife. Back in our old dun, that was.” Cadryc glanced at Cal’s suddenly pale face, then went on hastily. “Not that such will be happening to your child, mind. Your lady’s got the best help in the world.”
Calonderiel gulped his mead down before the lass finished pouring for the others. She refilled his goblet, curtsied, and hurried away to help serve Daralanteriel’s warband, who were filing into the great hall a few at a time. Cadryc turned to his royal guest, sitting at his right hand.
“It gladdens my heart to see you, my prince,” Cadryc said. “Among other things, I’ve got a letter for you from Prince Voran. He didn’t know where else to send it.” He rose from his chair and looked around, then bellowed at Clae, who was talking with Neb over by the servant’s hearth. “Page! Neb, come over here, too, would you?”
Cadryc sent Clae off to find Prince Voran’s letter. Neb waited to read it, standing behind and to one side of Prince Dar’s chair. Neb had changed over the winter, Gerran noticed, grown taller, for one thing, though he was as skinny as ever. The biggest change proved harder to pin down. Something about his eyes caught Gerran’s attention, a certain confidence, a new strength, and yet along with those qualities he displayed a surprising kind of world-weariness, as if his eyes had looked upon a measure of sad experience proper to a much older man.
When Clae returned with the message tube, Prince Dar broke the seal, then handed the tube to his scribe. Neb shook out the parchment, glanced over the letter, then read it aloud in a voice that had deepened since last Gerran had heard it. On the far side of the hall, after a susurrus of shushing each other, the servants and warbands fell silent to listen. Tankard in hand, Salamander drifted over to lean against the nearby