The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [165]
‘Well, the past is past,’ Dallandra said at last. ‘You’re forgiven.’
Grallezar let out her breath with a sharp sigh. ‘Thank you.’
They clasped hands, but both found it too hard to smile.
‘What now?’ Grallezar said. ‘For me, I mean. My men want to fight in your army, but I’m too old. My hair gets more brown in it every time I let it grow. I know very little healing lore, but surely there’s work I can do. I’m willing to tend your horses, as I told the prince.’
‘That will hardly be necessary.’
‘But if naught else, you’ll have to let me do any lifting and hauling of heavy things.’
‘Um, why?’
‘Don’t you know?’ Grallezar sniffed the air, thought for a moment, sniffed again, then nodded as if affirming something to herself. ‘You’re pregnant.’
‘Oh no! Not now! Oh no no no!’
‘The goddesses are never convenient, are they?’
‘Apparently not! I can’t think of a worst time. Here, please, don’t tell anyone, will you? Cal will try to send me away, and I’ve absolutely got to be here for a great many reasons.’
‘Very well.’ Grallezar gave her a tentative smile. ‘Your men really don’t know their place, do they?’
Much to her surprise, Dallandra found she could laugh, and Grallezar joined her.
‘You’re not far along,’ Grallezar paused for another sniff. ‘It’s too early to tell whether it’s male or female. How long do your folk carry your babies?’
‘A full year, and sometimes a moon beyond that.’
And thank the gods for it, too, Dallandra thought. There’s no reason for Cal to know yet.
At dawn the next morning Arzosah and Rori flew back to the army with the news that the Galan Targ lay close ahead. Dallandra realized with a coldness around her heart that the battles for Zakh Gral were about to begin.
As the army made its slow way towards the ford of the Galan Targ, the two princes, the avro and the gwerbret rode together, talking back and forth, at the head of the line of march. Lesser lords, such as Gerran, rode some distance behind, out of earshot, though Gerran could see that some kind of argument was talking place. He noticed as well that Kov, Grallezar and Calonderiel rode just behind the commanders, close enough to lean forward and shout things into the conversation. Around noon, when the army came within sight of the river, the commanders called the usual halt to feed their men and rest the horses, then sent the dragons ahead to scout.
Gerran and Salamander walked a few hundred yards away from the camp to a low swell of ground from which they could see the ford. At this point the river stretched broad and shallow, maybe fifty yards across but not more than four feet deep. Big grey stones marked out a safe route across.
‘Someone made this ford, I’ll wager,’ Gerran said. ‘They must have widened the channel to let the water spread out.’
‘It does look like that,’ Salamander said. ‘The hard work was doubtless all done by slaves.’
Gerran snorted in disgust.
On the other side of the river scrub grass and weeds covered an area of uneven ground that stretched towards the west for about a hundred yards. Beyond lay scruffy second-growth forest. This weedy terrain, as far as Gerran could tell, rose to heavily wooded hills at some middle distance. In the heat of the summer’s day, the river murmured, and insects swarmed along its banks. Otherwise nothing moved, but the hair on the back of Gerran’s neck rose. Someone was watching him. He looked up, shading his eyes with one hand, then laughed. Salamander caught the gesture and did the same.
‘It’s just a raven,’ Gerran said. ‘I’ve seen one following us now and then.’
‘It’s a raven, all right.’ Salamander sounded so alarmed that Gerran shot him a puzzled glance.
‘Ravens do follow armies,’ Gerran said. ‘They always