The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [124]
‘Same to you, my lord.’ Gwivyr jerked his thumb at the bundles. ‘What are these supposed to be, targets?’
‘Just so. Goodman Gwervyl’s archers need practice.’
‘I don’t like it, all these cursed archers. What would our ancestors say about noble-born warriors fighting behind a shield of common folk? It’s dishonourable!’
Gerran realized an unexpected advantage to having been ennobled. He no longer had to keep a polite silence around lords like Gwivyr.
‘Is it, your grace? What about letting the commoners face Horsekin raids without weapons to defend themselves?’
‘Well, true spoken, that would be a graver dishonour. But for a thousand years and more we noble-born have fought like men, facing our enemies sword in hand. Why bring these common-born archers to battle with us?’
‘Why?’ Gerran paused to consider how to keep his answer in the bounds of courtesy. ‘Because they can kill some of our enemies, your grace, while we kill the rest.’
Tieryn Gwivyr stared at him for a moment, then laughed, a long braying bellow.
‘A good answer, my lord,’ Gwivyr said, still smiling. ‘But come now, doesn’t it ache your heart? You’re the greatest swordsman in the Northlands, but some oaf with a longbow could put an end to all that skill from a hundred yards off.’
‘That’s true spoken. I can’t say it gladdens my heart. You’re right about another thing, your grace. That thousand years you spoke of? It’s coming to an end, whether we want it to or no.’
Gwivyr’s smile disappeared. He raised one hand in a strangely clumsy wave, then turned on his heel and strode off.
Gwivyr’s heart would be a cursed lot more troubled, Gerran thought, if he knew about the dweomer mixed up in this. He thought of Neb, discussing dweomer so calmly and at times drawing upon it the way Gerran would rely on his sword. Better him than me! Yet he felt in an odd way that dweomer had somehow touched him and stained his thoughts. He was sure—though he tried to dismiss it as mere superstition—that in the coming battle he would find his father’s killer and face him. It was sixteen years ago! he reminded himself. By now that Horsekin warrior was most likely dead, or too old to be posted to a frontier fortress, or just simply living elsewhere. Yet deep in his soul he felt—no, he knew—that he wouldn’t merely face the killer. He would recognize him.
You’re going daft! he told himself. With a shake of his head he turned back to the broch. Out of habit he started to go in by the servants’ door, then caught himself and walked around to the honour side. Lady Solla was just coming out. At the sight of him, she broke into a grin, then hastily stifled it into a decorous little smile.
‘And a good morrow to you, Lord Gerran,’ she said.
‘The same to you, my lady.’
They stood facing each other in an awkward silence. There was so much that Gerran wanted to say, all of it leading to ‘will you marry me?’, but he hesitated, not out of fear that she’d say him nay, but its opposite. If they became betrothed now, and he were killed, she’d be a widow in men’s eyes, and have no chance at a good marriage. As she waited for him to speak, her beautiful hazel eyes grew troubled, and she arranged an utterly false smile. He had to say something, he knew, or he’d wound her.
‘My lady,’ he said, ‘I have the greatest respect for you.’
‘And I for you.’ She sounded puzzled—not a good omen.
‘Will you hold me in your prayers while I’m gone to war?’
‘Of course.’ The smile began to look natural.
‘I suppose you women folk will have plenty do while we’re gone, your spinning and suchlike.’
‘Oh, we certainly will! The sewing’s eternal.’
‘Do you think I could presume to ask you a favour? The tieryn owes me a new shirt as part of my maintenance, but these blazons—’ Gerran touched the Red Wolf embroidered on one yoke.
‘They’re not right, are they?’ Solla smiled again. ‘I can work you a shirt with a pair of falcons