steady pace. Her gnome stared at it open-mouthed.
‘Take the box, too,’ Grallezar said, ‘to keep it safe, like.’
‘I will, then, and my thanks!’
During her first few practices, Branna saw nothing but her memories of the Red Wolf dun. Yet finally, early one morning when Neb was off studying with Dallandra, she received a very brief, very misty impression of the great hall. Aunt Galla was just coming down the stairs, and she looked well and happy, if somewhat thinner. Branna’s pleasure at seeing this vision broke it. It was another four practices before at last she saw the dun again and the fields roundabout, all muddy from spring rain. From then on, Branna managed to catch regular glimpses of the dun, although she couldn’t control which part of it she was seeing.
‘Everyone looks well,’ she told Grallezar. ‘It gladdens my heart to see them. I wonder, though, about Solla. I told you about her, didn’t I? Gerran’s wife? I have this feeling that she’s with child, but I can’t really be sure. It’s too bad you can’t smell things when you scry.’
Grallezar laughed aloud at that. ‘From what the prince do say,’ Grallezar said, ‘we should be there in some while. And then we’ll know if she be so or not.’
Up north in the Red Wolf dun, its women had been worrying about Branna as much as she’d been worrying about them. Not an evening meal went by, Gerran noticed, without the dun’s lady, Galla, or the widowed Lady Adranna mentioning her.
‘Out there with the Westfolk!’ Galla would say. ‘I just can’t believe it sometimes, that a niece of mine would be off with the Westfolk!’
‘Well, Mama,’ Adranna generally answered, ‘I can believe it of Branna. She always had a wild streak, and look at the way she spoke to that dragon, as bold as brass!’
Gerran would glance his wife’s way and see her trying not to smile. Only he and Solla knew exactly how deep Branna’s wildness ran.
As the days slipped by, each a little longer than the last, the spring air became warm enough for the womenfolk to carry their sewing outside to take the sun. Servants put chairs out in the dun’s kitchen garden and carried the ladies’ sewing. Gerran escorted them and saw his wife settled in a chair near the dun’s lady. The sunlight caught auburn highlights in Solla’s brown hair, and her hazel eyes had turned a beautiful green.
‘Shall I bring you a cushion?’ Gerran said. ‘Or a footstool?’
‘I’m fine like this, my love,’ Solla said.
‘Are you sure? Do you need a shawl?’
‘Gerro!’ Lady Galla leaned forward in her chair and laughed. ‘She’s with child, not ill!’
‘Lady Galla’s right.’ Solla laid a soft hand on his arm. ‘We northern lasses are a tough lot.’
Gerran smiled; she’d been repeating that sentiment often in the last few months. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘I’ll send one of the pages out to sit here with you. If you need somewhat, he’ll fetch it.’
‘Penna’s right here.’ Solla sounded puzzled.
Gerran had simply not noticed her young maid, who sat on the ground right beside her mistress’s chair. Penna looked up at him with wide dark eyes that revealed no trace of any emotion under their plumed brown brows. She was a peculiar lass in his opinion, a skinny little thing with slick brown hair that she wore as short as a lad’s. Solla had given her a place in the dun, but the lady took as much care of the maid as the maid did of the lady.
‘It’s the pages’ duty to run messages,’ Gerran said. ‘Penna’s duty is to sew.’
‘Whatever you say, my love.’ Solla rolled her eyes heavenward at this precision.
Penna managed a brief smile.
Gerran went off to hunt for pages. Eventually he found Ynedd, the youngest of the three, leaning against the wall of the stable. His hands were in his pockets, and he seemed to be studying the ground between his feet. Dirt and bits of straw clung to his blond hair, cropped off but curly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Gerran said. ‘Have Clae and Coryn been tormenting you again?’
Ynedd looked up with red-rimmed eyes. A fresh purple bruise mottled his cheek.
‘I see,’ Gerran said. ‘They won’t stop until you fight back.’
‘I tried to, my lord,’ Ynedd said, ‘but there’s two of them.’
‘What? They both jumped you at once, did they?’
Ynedd mumbled something so softly that Gerran could barely hear him. He took it to mean ‘I’m not supposed to tell.’
‘Where are they, do you know?’
‘I don’t, my lord.’
‘Well, I’ll find them sooner or later, and I’ll have a bit of a chat with them. Two against one? Not among the lads I’m training!’
Ynedd managed to smile at that, a little smirk of anticipated revenge. ‘Are you going to beat them?’
‘I’m not. The grooms need help mucking out the stables, and Clae and Coryn can provide it. As for you, go join the women out in the garden. My lady might need to send me a message.’
‘Well and good, my lord.’ Ynedd grinned at him. ‘My thanks.’
The boy peeled himself from the wall and hurried off, so pleased with the order that Gerran followed for some yards, then stood watching as the womenfolk exclaimed over Ynedd’s bruise and sat him down among them. Lady Galla even gave him some sort of sweetmeat. What’s next? Gerran thought sourly. Will they be teaching him how to sew? Since he couldn’t argue with her ladyship, he turned back and went inside the broch to the great hall.
The warband had gathered around one table and was wagering furiously on a game of carnoic between Daumyr, one of the tieryn’s riders, and Salamander, the gerthddyn who’d spent the winter at the tieryn’s table. Gerran dipped himself a tankard of ale from an open barrel near the honour hearth and wandered over to watch. He was planning on sitting in his usual chair at the head of the table nearest the servants’ hearth, but he found it already occupied by Lord Mirryn.
‘And what are you doing here?’ Gerran said.
‘I could ask the same of you, my lord.’ Mirryn paused for a grin in his general direction. ‘You’ve got a higher rank than me now, married as you are, and here your wife’s with child already. I figure that from now on, I’m the captain of my father’s warband and little more.’
‘If Solla has a son, I’ll gloat then and not before.’ Gerran felt his usual pang of cold fear at the mention of Solla’s pregnancy. What if she dies? He shoved the thought away with a toss of his head. ‘But anyway, it doesn’t matter if you or I or the Lord of Hell call you the captain. What counts is what your father thinks of the matter.’
Not long after they learned exactly that, when Cadryc strode into the great hall. He pulled off his yellow and red plaid cloak, tossed it over the back of his chair at the head of the honour table, then stood looking around him
