The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [131]
‘Well, now,’ Neb said. ‘I’ve come to bid you good luck.’
‘My thanks.’ His task finished, Clae jumped down from the crate. ‘Don’t look so grim, Neb. It’s not like I’ll be fighting or suchlike.’
‘Still, a war’s a dangerous place to be. You be careful now, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you remember what I told you about Salamander?’
‘I do. And Lord Gerran won’t let any harm come to me.’
Not if he can help it, anyway, Branna thought to herself.
‘True spoken.’ Neb managed to smile.
‘It must ache your heart, not getting to go.’
‘Oh, I’ll get over it. So fare you well.’
‘And the same to you.’ Clae glanced around, distracted. ‘It’s time for me to lead my lord’s horse into line.’
The Red Wolf warband were forming up their marching order. Branna and Neb got out of their way and went to stand by the entrance to the great hall.
‘Does it truly ache you’re heart that you’re staying behind?’ Branna said.
‘Of course it doesn’t,’ Neb said, ‘but I didn’t want to be telling Clae that. Here, I’m going inside. I know that my brother’s an apprentice of sorts now, and that he’s gone from my care, but blast it all, I can’t stand to watch him ride to war!’ He turned and strode off before Branna could say a comforting word.
As her father and uncle left the broch, Branna bade farewell to them, then stood to one side with Solla while the warband finished getting itself organized. The men led their horses into line, then stood waiting for the order to mount. Gerran had a brief word with Tieryn Cadryc, then walked down the line, looking over every man, checking his gear, and making the occasional remark, before returning to its head, where Clae was holding the reins of his horse. Before he mounted, Gerran reached inside his shirt and took out a strip of blue cloth, which he gave to Clae, and said a few words.
Branna stood too far away to hear the order, but Clae handed him the horse’s reins. Gerran held them in his right hand while the page tied the strip around Gerran’s upper left arm. Solla caught her breath. Branna glanced her way.
‘That’s your scarf, isn’t it?’ Branna said.
‘It is,’ Solla said. ‘Just a little token. For luck.’
‘Of course. Just a little token. Of course.’
They shared a smile, but when Gerran mounted and gave the signal for the warband to do the same, Solla’s smile disappeared into a tight-lipped determination to show no feeling at all. Branna suddenly felt selfish, that her beloved would stay behind, in safety. If we are safe, she thought. When she glanced up at the sky, she saw no sign of the raven mazrak. With a yell and a wave, Tieryn Cadryc led his men and his noble-born allies and vassals out of the gates at the trot. On Gerran’s arm the blue scarf fluttered like a pennant.
While the army assembled out in the meadow, the women of the dun climbed up to the catwalk to watch and wave farewell. Branna was about to join them when she felt a tug at her skirt. The grey gnome stood beside her, his pointy little face screwed up in anxiety. His mouth gaped, and he waved his hands.
‘What is it?’ Branna whispered. ‘What’s upset you?’
The gnome turned and dashed a few yards away, then paused, flapping its hands at her. When she followed, it darted around the side of the broch. A man was just leading a horse from the stables, and despite the warmth of the day, he wore a cloak with the hood up around his face in a futile attempt to hide his identity.
‘And what are you up to, Mirro?’ Branna said. ‘Going to sneak off and follow the army?’
‘Blast you!’ Mirryn pushed the hood back; sweat beaded on his forehead and cheeks. ‘I suppose you’ll run straight to my mother and tell her, too.’
‘I won’t have to. She’s up on the walls with the other