The Spirit Stone (38 page)

‘A lot of the wheels have tangled stuff on them,’ Branna said. ‘I noticed it earlier, when your men were lining the carts up.’

‘It’s the long grass,’ Kov said. ‘There’s one big problem with this new device. The strake edge can cut dry grass, and if it does, it gathers it up and spins it right round the wheel. It’ll be a cursed nuisance when we’re travelling over the grasslands. ’

The look on Branna’s face surprised him—a sudden wondering, then a grin. Without a word to him she trotted over to the cart and watched the servant pulling the long stalks free. The action of the strake and its nailheads had twisted them into a messy sort of rope. Puzzled, Kov followed her.

‘Uh, is somewhat the matter, my lady?’ he said.

‘Not in the least!’ Branna looked up, and her grin turned even broader. ‘Here, good envoy. Surely your men have brought a lot of extra wheels along, haven’t they? Do you think I might have one of them? I don’t have any coin to pay you with, but I do have a bit of jewellery you might fancy.’

‘My dear lady! It would be an honour to present you with one as a gift, but um er, might I ask why?’

‘I’ve got an idea, that’s all. I wonder if one of those wheels or somewhat like it would spin wool as well as it tangles grass.’

Kov had never felt so bewildered in his life, but his master Garin’s long training in courtesy saved him. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Here, let me find you one. I think our head carter’s just over there.’

Once Branna had her straked wheel, she thanked him profusely, then carried it up to the dun. He heard her calling for Horza as she ran through the gates.
I don’t know why I’m so surprised,
he thought.
Our women do love their contrivances, too.
After all, he reminded himself, it was just such a womanly love of devices that had led to the secret carried in those wrapped and rune-marked crates.

No one, however, could spare much time to wonder about mountain secrets. That very afternoon Prince Voran called a council of war. Since Cadryc had no proper chamber of justice—he judged local crimes and disputes right in his great hall—the prince, the gwerbret, Brel, and Kov met in the prince’s bedchamber, a smallish shabby room in Kov’s eyes but obviously the best in the dun. Servants had set up chairs near the window; a low table sported a map of Deverry that Ridvar had brought with him from Cengarn. Kov was expecting that Cadryc would be invited to sit in on the council out of courtesy’s sake, him being the lord of the dun, but he never appeared.

In the curve of the wall sat a young brown-haired scribe—Neb, Kov thought his name might be, though he’d not heard it clearly—and an oddly handsome fellow with hair as pale as moonlight and slightly pointed ears. At first Kov thought this Westfolk half-breed an apprentice scribe, since Neb was showing him how to write upon waxed tablets with a stylus, but he turned out to be a fair bit more important than that.

‘Cadvridoc Brel, Envoy,’ Prince Voran said, ‘this is Salamander the gerthddyn, the man who discovered the existence of Zakh Gral.’ He abruptly frowned. ‘Here, lad, you must have some better name than Salamander.’

Salamander handed his pair of tablets to the scribe, then rose to a kneel. ‘I do, your highness,’ he said, ‘Evan of Drwloc.’

‘Much better! Very well, Goodman Evan,’ the prince continued. ‘I had you brought here to tell us about the terrain around Zakh Gral once again. Neb, I’m hoping to you can take what he tells us and make some sort of picture of it on the back of this map.’

‘I’ll do my best, your highness.’ Neb glanced at Evan. ‘You talk, and I’ll make a sketch on the wax tablet. Then you tell me if it’s correct before I do it in ink.’

‘Good idea,’ the prince said. ‘Proceed.’

By the time that the gerthddyn had finished his description, and the scribe’s drawing was done, Kov and Brel were exchanging grim glances. The Horsekin obviously knew a thing or two about siting a fortress. Zakh Gral sat at the edge of the grasslands, where the plateau began to rise into the foothills of the fabled mountains of the far west. To the north lay broken tableland, set off by a rise of cliff that, the Mountain Folk knew, marked the old coastline of the landmass back in ages so old that no one remembered them but the Wildfolk. The northern heights had spawned a river, running straight south to the sea, which Goodman Evan had crossed close to its source.

‘It might be called the Galan Targ. We travelled by such a roundabout route, your highness,’ the gerthddyn said, ‘that I was thoroughly confused by the time we left the forest. Thank the gods for sending us the dragons! They’ll see more than I did.’

Dragons?
Kov thought.
We have dragons?
Brel caught his glance, then rolled his eyes heavenward as if to say, ‘worse and worse’.

‘Very well,’ the prince said. ‘So you followed this river south to the fortress?’

‘We did, your highness,’ Evan said. ‘Zakh Gral must have been at least twenty-five miles south of the ford. We walked for nearly a day and a half to reach it. The road runs by the river at first, but as it flows south, the river gets faster, and the canyon grows deeper.’

Much deeper, as it turned out—Evan estimated that the river lay thirty feet below the fortress, perched on the west bank cliff above. Brel began to stroke his beard in thought. The one hopeful thing about the description, Kov decided, was the nature of the cliffs—red sandstone, easily shattered by good steel picks, assuming, of course, that the sappers could reach the bottom of the gorge in the first place.

‘The hard question,’ Brel said, ‘is how we’re going to get the army across that river.’

‘I was hoping your men could build us a bridge,’ Voran said. ‘Everyone knows how clever the Mountain Folk are at such things. I have great faith in your—’

‘Flattery’s all very well,’ Brel interrupted, ‘but does timber grow around there, enough for the building of a bridge?’

Everyone looked at Evan, who smiled in a sickly sort of way. ‘The hills to the west of Zakh Gral are wooded,’ he said, ‘but on the east side of the river, I saw only scrub and grass.’

Brel muttered a Dwarvish oath foul enough to make Kov glad that he was the only one there who understood it. The young gwerbret looked back and forth between Brel and Voran.

‘Well, your highness,’ Ridvar said. ‘We can cross at that northern ford easily enough.’

‘We can,’ Voran said, ‘assuming they don’t learn we’re coming till we’re across it. If they do, we can still cross at the ford, but it won’t be easy in the least.’

Neb the scribe, who’d been studying his map, suddenly looked up and shuddered, as violently as if snow had just slid down his back. Voran laughed, one sharp bark.

‘Geese walking on your grave, lad?’ the prince said.

‘I’ll hope not, your highness,’ Neb said. ‘My apologies.’

Kov felt his stomach clench. He preferred to disbelieve in evil omens, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that he’d just seen one arrive.

With the muster complete, the army would stay only a single night at the Red Wolf dun. Dinner among the noble-born that night, a feast laid on to honour Gwerbret Ridvar and Prince Voran, presented such a challenge that Branna was glad that they’d all be leaving soon, despite her fears for the safety of her clansmen. As lord of the dun, Cadryc kept his usual place at the head of the table of honour, while the prince sat at his right and the gwerbret at his left. Since the tierynau in attendance filled the rest of the seats, leaving no room for Cadryc’s family or lesser lords, Lord Mirryn headed the next table over. Branna, who sat at the far end to share a trencher with Gerran, could overhear the conversation at the honour table. Neb found himself banished to the servitors’ table once again, some distance away.

At the various honour tables, conversation proceeded slowly, in spurts, making eavesdropping even easier. Branna assumed at first that the men going to war were wrapped in their own thoughts, but when the servants were clearing away the last of the roast pork, Gerran pointed out the truth.

‘Keep an eye on your uncle.’ He leaned close and dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘He was never invited to that council today. If he starts to go off, can you pretend to faint or suchlike? Anything to cause a distraction.’

Branna followed his glance and realized that Cadryc had turned red in the face. He was glaring at Gwerbret Ridvar over the rim of his tankard while Ridvar smiled blandly out at nothing in particular. Prince Voran slid to the edge of his chair and leaned forward, ever so slightly.

‘I’ll try,’ Branna whispered. ‘But I’m not very good at fainting.’

Ridvar made some remark that she couldn’t quite catch, but she did hear him say the name ‘Matyc.’ At that Cadryc slammed his tankard down. His bellow carried quite clearly.

‘He’s up in the women’s hall with his mother, your grace. Since he’s but a little child, he can still eat there. You needn’t be afraid of him.’

Ridvar flushed red, then went dead-white. Hampered by her skirts, Branna took several moments to get free of the bench. Fortunately Prince Voran could move faster. He was on his feet and standing beside Cadryc before Ridvar could say a word.

‘Your grace,’ Voran caught Cadryc’s arm. ‘You promised me a look at that Western Hunter in your stables. The air in here’s so hot and stale that I’d very much like to go see him right now.’

Cadryc blinked in utter confusion, but Voran hauled him up bodily by one arm. Left with no choice, Cadryc allowed himself to be dragged away toward the door out. Branna darted forward and sat down in her uncle’s place before half the great hall even knew what had happened. She turned to Ridvar and smiled.

‘Oh, your grace!’ Branna mustered her best simper. ‘I know this is just awfully discourteous of me, but I really had to ask about your delightful wife. One of the servant lasses told me that she might be with child.’

Ridvar opened his mouth and shut it several times, then glanced around on the edge of anger, but he did finally answer. ‘Not that I know of, Lady Branna, though such would be a great blessing, of course. Otherwise, she fares well.’

‘She must be so happy, married to a handsome lord like you.’

Ridvar blushed, but he did smile and stay where he was.

Branna managed to chatter for some brief while, long enough for Prince Voran and her uncle to return. As soon as she saw them in the doorway, Branna got up with one last piece of flattery for Ridvar. A much subdued Cadryc took the chair that had formerly held the prince, while Voran seated himself in the tieryn’s, directly next to Ridvar, and looked at the gwerbret in a way that managed to be bland and frosty at the same time. Branna hurried back to her place beside Gerran, who gave her one of his rare smiles.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘If Ridvar forces Cadryc into rebellion, the war’s over. The Horsekin can finish their cursed fortress in peace.’

‘It gladdens my heart that you’ll be travelling with my uncle, you and Salamander both.’ Branna grabbed his tankard and helped herself to a long swallow of ale. ‘I’ll pray for you.’

The rest of the evening passed without further trouble. After the women had retired to their own hall, Prince Voran’s body servant appeared at the door with a note, written on the finest scraped white leather, from his master for Branna. It said simply, ‘my thanks,’ but Branna tucked it into her kirtle to save, not because it came from a prince, but because she could write upon the back.

After a hasty breakfast eaten in grim silence, the noble-born allies and commanders began leaving the dun to rejoin their men in the meadow. The Red Wolf warband began to get itself ready to ride. Out in the ward, pages and servants rushed back and forth, carrying sacks and campaign chests and wicker baskets of gear and supplies. Grooms led out the horses and began to saddle them.

Through the midst of this confusion Branna and Neb went looking for Clae. They found him eventually down by the dun gates. He was standing on a crate beside Gerran’s dun riding horse in order to reach its saddle. He’d already attached his lord’s saddlebags to the cantle; now he was struggling to hang the shield, which Neb had recently painted; on a white-washed background a yellow falcon spread its wings, done in paint made from the local clay for lack of gold for gilding.

‘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.