his attention to his son.
‘Well, Mirro,’ Cadryc said, ‘what are you doing over here?’
‘The Falcon’s going to have a dun of his own soon enough,’ Mirryn said. ‘So I’m the captain of your warband now.’
‘Ah.’ Cadryc paused for a long moment. ‘So you are. Carry on with your game, men.’ He turned and walked away, leaving Mirryn open-mouthed but speechless behind him.
The men of the warband looked as stunned as their new captain. They said nothing, but they kept glancing at one another. And what will they think of him? Gerran wondered. He’s never ridden to war. Their carefully arranged faces revealed nothing. Mirryn sat down to a profound silence.
‘That was easy enough,’ Gerran said.
Mirryn nodded and picked up his tankard from the table. The conversation and the wagering resumed, slowly at first, then erupted into cheers from Daumyr’s supporters when his next move won the game.
‘Ai!’ Salamander said. ‘I am vanquished, well and truly conquered, routed, and driven from the field!’
‘I take it that means you don’t want another game,’ Daumyr said.
‘Quite right. You’ve beaten me thrice, and my vanity won’t take another blow.’ Salamander got up with a grin. ‘I think I’ll drown my sorrows in some of our lord’s ale.’
Daumyr turned on the bench and made a sketchy bob that might have signified a bow to the two lords.
‘Here, captain,’ Daumyr said to Mirryn, ‘care to give me a game, my lord?’
‘I do indeed,’ Mirryn said. ‘Bring the board up here, will you?’
Good man, Daumyr! Gerran thought. He decided that he didn’t dare risk acting as if he thought Mirryn needed his backing on his new authority. He went to the honour table and sat down at Cadryc’s left. The tieryn was obviously trying to suppress a grin at the effect he’d just had on his son. Gerran waited until a servant lass had brought Cadryc ale and left again. Carrying his own tankard, Salamander joined them.
‘I don’t know if you want my opinion, your grace,’ Gerran said, ‘but you made the right choice for your new captain.’
‘Good. It gladdens my heart that you agree.’ Cadryc frowned into his tankard. ‘No doubt the lad will have plenty of chances to prove himself, with the cursed Horsekin prowling around.’ He reached into the tankard and pulled out a bit of straw, which he tossed onto the floor before continuing. ‘I just hope it’s not too soon.’
The tieryn and the gerthddyn exchanged a significant glance.
‘Um, well, your grace,’ Gerran said, puzzled, ‘the sooner he gets a chance to draw his first blood, the better.’
‘I know that. Wasn’t what I meant.’ Cadryc glared at his ale again, as if suspecting it of harbouring dark secrets.
‘If there’s more straw in that, we should send one of the lasses to tell Cook.’
‘Um? Oh, true spoken, but it should be all right.’ Cadryc took a long swallow. ‘Naught wrong with it now.’
‘If you don’t mind me shoving an oar in,’ Salamander said, ‘Mirryn needs to marry, and soon.’
‘True spoken,’ Cadryc said. ‘And I hope to the gods he sires more sons that I did!’
‘Does Lady Galla have a match in mind?’ Salamander asked.
‘She’s doing her best to find one. That’s the trouble with being out here on the wretched border, with the noble-born so thin on the ground. I don’t particularly want him marrying a common-born lass, but who else is there, eh?’
‘Admittedly the choice is limited.’ Salamander glanced at Gerran, as if inviting him to comment.
Gerran shrugged. He had no ideas on the subject.
‘Might as well leave all that to the womenfolk,’ the tieryn said. ‘Now, Gerro, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about the Falcon clan’s new dun. Cursed if I know who’s going to pay for it. You can’t just throw a few stones together like a farmer, eh? You’ll need a proper master mason from Trev Hael to plan the thing.’
‘Well,’ Gerran said, ‘my wife tells me that her brother owes her a fair amount of hard coin – an inheritance from an uncle, I think she said – but I’d hate to use that.’
‘You may have to. We don’t live in the best of times, lad.’ Cadryc paused for a long swallow of his ale. ‘We’ve got to get men and defences out into the Melyn Valley as soon as we can. I doubt me if the Horsekin will have the stomach for raiding this summer, but sooner or later, they’ll come back. I’ve been thinking about our new overlord. The coin should come from him.’
‘Do you think he has it?’
It was Cadryc’s turn for the shrug. Salamander heaved a mournful sigh.
‘Do we even know where he is?’ Gerran went on. ‘I swore to Prince Dar gladly, but ye gods, the Westfolk could be anywhere out in the grasslands. All I’ve ever heard is that they ride north every summer.’
‘That will have to do, then, eh? Sooner or later he’s bound to ask us for dues and taxes, and we’ll find out then.’
Gerran looked at Salamander and raised an eyebrow, but the gerthddyn merely buried his nose in his tankard. Since they couldn’t speak openly of dweomer in front of the tieryn, Gerran let the matter drop.
Cadryc and Gerran weren’t the only men wondering where Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands might be. A few days later messengers turned up at Cadryc’s gates, two road-dusty men riding matched greys and leading two more mounts behind them. The extra horses identified them as speeded couriers, and their tabards sported the royal gold wyvern of Dun Deverry.
One-armed Tarro, who’d been watching the gates that afternoon, showed them directly into the great hall. When Gerran realized who they were, he sent a page off to find his wife, one of the only two people in the dun who could read. The messengers knelt at Tieryn Cadryc’s side. One of them proffered a silver tube, sealed at both ends with gold-coloured wax.
‘From Prince Voran of Dun Deverry, your grace,’ he said. ‘Humbly requesting a favour should your grace be willing.’
‘Very well.’ Cadryc took the message tube from him. ‘Go sit with my men. A lass will bring you ale, and tell her if you’d like a meal to go with it.’
‘Our humble thanks, your grace.’
Both men rose and strode away to the far side of the hall. Cadryc scowled at the messages in his hand.
‘You know, Gerro,’ he said, ‘there was somewhat about the way that fellow spoke to me, so carefully, like, that troubled my heart. I was cursed glad to get out from under Gwerbret Ridvar’s overlordship last autumn. It was leave or rebel, truly. I know you agreed. It was good of Prince Dar to take us on. But –’ He hesitated, groping for words. ‘Ah, by the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell! I don’t know what I mean.’
‘I
