doing him a disservice. He’s not like the men I grew up with.”
“I’m glad you can see that.” Dallandra smiled at her. “An honor-bound warrior he’s not.”
Over on the blankets, Vek let out a long snore, then turned over on his side and nestled down, his back to the women.
“Good, he’s asleep,” Dallandra said. “That’s the best thing for him.”
“So it is,” Sidro said, then lowered her voice to a murmur. “He had one of his visions during the fit.”
“Did he see Laz or the black stone?” Dallandra leaned closer and spoke softly.
“Alas, he did not. He spoke of a tower that reached to the sky, but it turned to smoke.”
“The tower did?”
“It turned to a pillar of smoke whilst it sent out flames, he did say. Do you think his mind did fasten on the burning of Zakh Gral? The men here have talked of little else all winter long.”
“It seems likely, truly. Did he say anything about where this tower was?”
“He did not, but many of our people—the Gel da’Thae, that be—did die in the flames. He wept to see it. Then spirits came down from heaven and spread snow upon the burning, and the snow did fall everywhere and ruin a harvest. ‘The oats and barley in the field do die,’ he cried out. The snow were ashes, I suppose.” Sidro frowned, thinking. “But there were no tilled fields near Zakh Gral. The rakzanir did speak of settling slave farmers around it to feed the soldiers stationed there, but that were to happen the next year. Our food did come from the cities.”
“Well, I don’t think we can expect every detail of his visions to make perfect sense.” Dallandra glanced at Vek to make sure that he was still sound asleep. “This one seems clearer than the others, though, so I can see why you’re trying to puzzle it out.
“So it be.” Sidro paused for a sigh. “I think me, Wise One, that we’ll be having a harvest of omens this summer.”
“And few of them good.” Dallandra had meant to speak lightly, but her words sprang to life in her mouth and burned.
Branna and Sidro both turned toward her and waited, studying her face. “More trouble, I suppose,” Dallandra said. “The Star Goddesses only know what, though I’ve no doubt we’ll find out for ourselves soon enough.”
“True spoken,” Branna said, “or too soon.”
Branna’s gray gnome grinned and nodded, then slowly, one bit at a time, disappeared.
On the morrow the rain slacked. A wind sprang up from the south and brought not warmth but the promise of it as it drove the clouds from the sky. Prince Daralanteriel gave the order to his royal alar to break camp. Besides his wife, Carra, and their children, the prince traveled with his banadar or warleader, his bard, his dweomermasters, and a hundred warriors, most of them archers, along with their wives and children, or in the case of the women archers, their husbands and children. Getting this mob on the road took time.
Besides the crowd of Westfolk, the alar traveled with herds of horses, flocks of sheep, and packs of dogs, trained for herding or hunting. Although the People were adept at packing up their goods, their livestock, and their tents, by the time they got moving along the predetermined route, the sun would be well on its way to midday. They’d travel until some hours before sunset, when everyone would stop to allow the stock to graze before nightfall. In the short days of winter’s end, they managed perhaps ten miles a day.
Dallandra thanked the Star Goddesses for the slow pace. She was too pregnant to ride astride. Walking would have tired her after a few miles, and sitting on a travois to be dragged along would have shaken her bones and the baby both. With the ground still saturated from the winter rains, using a wagon would have been out of the question even if the Westfolk had possessed such a thing. Fortunately, Grallezar had a solution.
“Among my people,” the Gel da’Thae said, “we have a thing called a mother’s saddle.
“I’m glad you can see that.” Dallandra smiled at her. “An honor-bound warrior he’s not.”
Over on the blankets, Vek let out a long snore, then turned over on his side and nestled down, his back to the women.
“Good, he’s asleep,” Dallandra said. “That’s the best thing for him.”
“So it is,” Sidro said, then lowered her voice to a murmur. “He had one of his visions during the fit.”
“Did he see Laz or the black stone?” Dallandra leaned closer and spoke softly.
“Alas, he did not. He spoke of a tower that reached to the sky, but it turned to smoke.”
“The tower did?”
“It turned to a pillar of smoke whilst it sent out flames, he did say. Do you think his mind did fasten on the burning of Zakh Gral? The men here have talked of little else all winter long.”
“It seems likely, truly. Did he say anything about where this tower was?”
“He did not, but many of our people—the Gel da’Thae, that be—did die in the flames. He wept to see it. Then spirits came down from heaven and spread snow upon the burning, and the snow did fall everywhere and ruin a harvest. ‘The oats and barley in the field do die,’ he cried out. The snow were ashes, I suppose.” Sidro frowned, thinking. “But there were no tilled fields near Zakh Gral. The rakzanir did speak of settling slave farmers around it to feed the soldiers stationed there, but that were to happen the next year. Our food did come from the cities.”
“Well, I don’t think we can expect every detail of his visions to make perfect sense.” Dallandra glanced at Vek to make sure that he was still sound asleep. “This one seems clearer than the others, though, so I can see why you’re trying to puzzle it out.
“So it be.” Sidro paused for a sigh. “I think me, Wise One, that we’ll be having a harvest of omens this summer.”
“And few of them good.” Dallandra had meant to speak lightly, but her words sprang to life in her mouth and burned.
Branna and Sidro both turned toward her and waited, studying her face. “More trouble, I suppose,” Dallandra said. “The Star Goddesses only know what, though I’ve no doubt we’ll find out for ourselves soon enough.”
“True spoken,” Branna said, “or too soon.”
Branna’s gray gnome grinned and nodded, then slowly, one bit at a time, disappeared.
On the morrow the rain slacked. A wind sprang up from the south and brought not warmth but the promise of it as it drove the clouds from the sky. Prince Daralanteriel gave the order to his royal alar to break camp. Besides his wife, Carra, and their children, the prince traveled with his banadar or warleader, his bard, his dweomermasters, and a hundred warriors, most of them archers, along with their wives and children, or in the case of the women archers, their husbands and children. Getting this mob on the road took time.
Besides the crowd of Westfolk, the alar traveled with herds of horses, flocks of sheep, and packs of dogs, trained for herding or hunting. Although the People were adept at packing up their goods, their livestock, and their tents, by the time they got moving along the predetermined route, the sun would be well on its way to midday. They’d travel until some hours before sunset, when everyone would stop to allow the stock to graze before nightfall. In the short days of winter’s end, they managed perhaps ten miles a day.
Dallandra thanked the Star Goddesses for the slow pace. She was too pregnant to ride astride. Walking would have tired her after a few miles, and sitting on a travois to be dragged along would have shaken her bones and the baby both. With the ground still saturated from the winter rains, using a wagon would have been out of the question even if the Westfolk had possessed such a thing. Fortunately, Grallezar had a solution.
“Among my people,” the Gel da’Thae said, “we have a thing called a mother’s saddle.
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