The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [6]
Mirryn went on studying the empty air. Finally Lady Galla, his mother, leaned across the table from her place at the tieryn’s right. ‘Mirro,’ she said, ‘please? This has been dreadful for all of us.’
‘Oh very well, Mam.’ Mirryn drew his table dagger from the sheath at his belt and placed it next to the trencher in front of him. ‘Shall I cut you some bread?’
‘If you’d be so kind.’ Lady Galla smiled at him, then favoured her husband with another smile, which he ignored.
The ‘all of us’ to whom the lady had referred were the other occupants of the honour table. Besides the tieryn, his stout, dark-haired lady, and his son, Gerran was now eating with the noble-born, who included Galla’s niece, Lady Branna, and her common-born husband Neb. Branna, with her yellow hair and her narrow blue eyes, was a pretty young woman, but Neb was the nondescript sort, brown haired, skinny, neither handsome nor ugly. Most people would have ignored him, but Gerran knew his worth.
Soon, however, Cadryc’s allies and vassals would appear to join the muster. Gerran was counting on the table filling up, allowing him to sneak back to his old place at the head of one of the warband’s tables over on the other side of the great hall, even though he had to admit that sharing a trencher with Lady Galla’s serving woman, Lady Solla, had its compensations. Every now and then her lovely hazel eyes would meet his when he offered her a slice of bread or passed her some portion of the meal. She would blush, and he would find himself at a loss for words.
The times were simply wrong for pleasantries. The coming war filled Gerran’s waking thoughts. On the morrow, messengers from their most important ally arrived at the dun. When the gatekeeper came running to tell Gerran that Westfolk were at the gates, Gerran told the man to let them in, then hurried out to greet them. From a distance the Westfolk looked much like ordinary men, but close up their wild blood revealed itself. Their eyes had abnormally large irises, slit with vertical pupils like a cat’s. Their long ears curled to a delicate point like sea shells. Rumours claimed they were immortal, too, but that Gerran heartily doubted. At his invitation they dismounted, three archers with their curved short bows slung over their backs and a man carrying the beribboned staff of a herald.
‘Messages, my lord,’ the herald said. ‘From Prince Daralanteriel himself.’
‘Good,’ Gerran said. ‘Come into the great hall. The tieryn’s there.’
As he followed them inside, Gerran was still wondering over the easy way the herald had called him ‘my lord’, since his shirt still bore the Red Wolf blazon, not his new gold falcon. Most likely the prince or his cadvridoc had described him at some point. Heralds, after all, remembered everything they were told or they lost their exalted positions.
From the door of the great hall, Lady Branna watched the herald dismount, then hoist down a pair of bulging saddlebags. A dark-haired fellow who looked more human than elven, he seemed somehow familiar, though she couldn’t place where she’d seen him before. She followed him to the table of honour, where her uncle was sitting at the head with her aunt at his right. Branna sat down next to her on the bench just as Neb came trotting down the staircase.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Cadryc called to him. ‘Messages from Prince Dar, I’ll wager!’
‘They are, your grace,’ the Westfolk man said. ‘My name is Maelaber, by the by, and I’m Calonderiel’s son.’
Aha! Branna thought. That’s why he looks familiar.
‘Then twice welcome, lad,’ Cadryc said.
‘My thanks. We’ve also come to lead your army to our muster. It’s too easy for Deverry men to get lost out in the grasslands.’
‘Now that’s true spoken.’ Cadryc paused for a smile. ‘It gladdens my heart to have you with us. Your prince is a farsighted man.’
‘He is that, your grace. I’ve also got a gift for Lady Branna. Councillor Dallandra