AFTER SIXTY-ODD years in Bardek, Nevyn returned to
Eldidd late in the summer of 918, landing in Aberwyn with some
unusual cargo tucked inside his shirt for safety’s sake.
While he’d been abroad, studying the scholarly dweomer lore
of the Bardekian priests, he’d gotten the idea of making a
talisman for the High King, a magically charged jewel that would
radiate the noble virtues endlessly to its owner’s mind. To
that end, he’d bought an extremely unusual stone and studied
the various writings about such creations in the libraries of
various temples, but to make the talisman, he brought the stone
home. As big as a walnut, but perfectly round and smoothly
polished, a tribute to the art of Bardek jewelers, the opal was
shot through with pale gold veins and bluish-pink shadows, as
mottled as the coat of some exotic animal. At the moment, for all
it beauty, it was an ordinary jewel, a dull thing in its way,
though worth a fortune. By the time Nevyn got done with it, it
would be supremely interesting, and worth a man’s life.
Down in the center of Aberwyn stood the hall of the merchant
guild, an imposing fat tower with glass in the downstairs windows
and a stout slate roof. Their official money changer held court in
a bare stone room with a hearth, two chairs, and a long table,
where Nevyn found a stout and gray-haired man sitting behind a
litter of Bardek-style scrolls. Behind him, at the entrance to
another room, an armed guard slouched against the wall.
“I’m just back from Bardek,” Nevyn said to the
money changer.
“You’ve hit the rate of exchange at a good time,
good sir. Sit down, sit down.”
As Nevyn pulled up the rickety three-legged chair, he noticed
the guard watching him with the interest of the longtime bored, a
young man of about twenty, tall and well muscled, with blond hair,
blue eyes, and the beginnings of a mustache blotching his upper
lip. Nevyn wouldn’t have given him a second thought if it
weren’t for the silver dagger at his belt. As it was, he took
a good look at the lad’s face and then nearly swore aloud,
because the soul behind his eyes struck him as familiar and
friendly both. Before he could observe more, the money
changer’s voice claimed his attention.
“We’ve been giving thirty Deverry silvers for each
Bardek zotar of full weight.”
“Indeed? That certainly is generous! Are things troubled
in Eldidd?”
“Have you been away for some time?”
“Years, actually.”
“Hum.” The money changer reflected upon something
before he spoke again. “I hope to every god in the Otherlands
that these rumors are only rumors, but they say the gwerbrets are
still pining for the days when they were princes. The High
King’s a long way away, my friend.”
“Just so. Rebellion?”
“Let us merely say that Bardek merchants have never gotten
rich by allowing themselves to be caught in the middle of trouble.
They’re not bringing us as much sound coinage as they once
did.”
The money changer counted out Nevyn’s zotars, marked the
tally on a bit of parchment, which Nevyn signed, then went back
through the doorway to his vault to change the coins. Nevyn turned
to the young guard and gave him a pleasant smile.
“What’s your name, lad? It looks like this duty
wears on you.”
“Maer, my lord. But I won’t be guarding this
fellow’s stores much longer. He just hired me to fill in,
like. His regular man broke his wrist in a fall, you see, but
thanks be to the gods, the splints are off now.”
When Nevyn risked opening up a quick bit of the dweomer sight
with the sigils that controlled memory, the silver dagger’s
face blurred and changed. For a moment Nevyn seemed to look into
the weary eyes of Maddyn the bard. Nevyn was so glad to see him
that he wanted to jump up and embrace him, but of course, since
Maer would have no conscious memory of his last life, he did
nothing of the sort.
“And what will you do next?” Nevyn said. “If
these rumors of trouble are true, there’ll be plenty of work
for silver daggers in Eldidd.”
“Oh, it’s all a lot of horseshit if you ask me, my
lord. The gwerbrets can mutter over their ale easy enough, but
getting the coin to outfit an army’s a bit harder. I’ll
go west, I suppose. I’ve never ridden that way
before.”
It was perhaps an omen of sorts. Nevyn had no real idea of where
to settle down while he performed the dweomer work on the opal, but
on the western coast lay a quiet little village that held pleasant
memories for him.
“I’m heading west myself,” Nevyn said.
“How would your captain feel if I rode with your troop a
ways?”
“Captain? Troop?” Mael paused for a laugh.
“The silver daggers haven’t ridden as a troop in fifty
years, good sir. It was that royal decree, you know. We can only
ride together one or two at a time, no more.”
“Indeed?” Nevyn was honestly shocked. I’ve
stayed away too long, he told himself. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s the king’s law, and
so it’s good enough for me. But I’m for hire, sure
enough, if you need a guard.”
“Feel like riding to Cannobaen?”
“Gladly. A couple of silver pieces?”
“Done. We’ll leave at dawn, then, the day after
tomorrow.”
When the time came to leave, Maer turned up promptly. Nevyn was
loading up his newly purchased riding horse and pack mule in the
little innyard just at dawn when the silver dagger appeared,
leading a splendid black warhorse, laden with a pair of saddlebags,
a bedroll, a plain white shield, and a pot helm, all tied in a
messy sort of way to his saddle. He looked over the mule packs with
some interest.
“So you’re a herbman, are you?”
“I am. Don’t worry about falling sick on our
journey.”
Maer grinned and finished loading the mule without being asked.
They led their horses through the busy morning streets, then
mounted outside the west gate just as the last of the sea fog was
burning off into a late-summer morning. To their left, the
turquoise sea sparkled and churned at the foot of pale cliffs, and
to their right, the winter wheat stood ripe and golden in the
fields. As they rode, Maer burst into good cheer, whistling and
singing in a fine clear tenor that with training would have made
him a bard. Nevyn was so genuinely glad to hear the man he would
always think of as Maddyn sing again that he had to give himself a
stern warning. This was Maer now, not Maddyn, and it was against
the laws of dweomer as well as common sense to treat the one as the
other.
When he turned in the saddle to pay Maer a compliment on his
voice, he was in for a surprise. Riding behind the silver
dagger’s saddle and clinging to him like a child was a
good-sized blue sprite. Just as he was telling himself that of
course it couldn’t be the same creature, not Maddyn’s
favorite still loyal after all these years, the sprite grinned at
him in such smug contentment that he was forced to recognize her.
Over the next few days, as they made their slow way to Cannobaen,
Nevyn saw the sprite often, hovering around Maer during the day,
cuddling up to him like a dog while he slept at night. It became
obvious, though, that Maer never saw her, because often he would
have stepped on her if she hadn’t jumped aside. Once, when
Maer was off at a farmhouse buying food, Nevyn got a chance alone
with her. Talking about death to one of the Wildfolk was, of
course, a complete waste of time.
“He doesn’t see you anymore, you know. He’s
changed since the last time you saw him.”
She snarled, exposing long and pointed teeth.
“It’s not good for you to follow him this way. You
should be off with your own kind.”
At that she threw back her head and howled, a thin wisp of
sound. Since normally the Wildfolk were incapable of making noise,
Nevyn became even more troubled.
“I’ll talk with one of your kings,” he began,
“and we’ll see what . . . ”
In a screech of fury she seemed to swell, sucking up substance
from the material plane and turning for one brief moment quite
solid and as large as a growing child. Then she was gone in a gust
of cold air.
Beside seeing the Wildfolk, Maer had been a silver dagger in his
last life, too, of course, but Nevyn tended to consider that a
simple coincidence. Although he would never have pried into the
reason for his dishonor, Maer himself volunteered the story as they
sat round the campfire on their second night out.
“You’re not an Eldidd man, are you?” Nevyn had
asked him.
“I’m not. I was born in Blaeddbyr, over in Deverry,
and that’s where I got this blasted dagger, too. I was riding
for the Wolf clan, you see, and one night, well, me and the lads
got a bit drunk. So one of my friends got this daft idea. There was
this lass he fancied—oh, bad it was, good sir—he was
like a boar in rut over the tailor’s daughter, but her da, he
kept an eye as sharp as one of his needles on the lass. So my
friend puts us up to helping him. We went round to the
tailor’s shop and Nyn calls the lass out of her bedroom
window, while me and the other lad went round the front. We pretend
to get into a brawl, you see, and old Da comes running out. So we
led him a merry dance, insulting him and having a fine old time,
and truly we got a bit carried away.” With a sigh, Maer
rubbed his chin with a rueful hand. “We ducked him in the
village horse trough, just for the fun of the thing, and all the
time Nyn’s tumbling the daughter out under a hedgerow. So Da
goes complaining to the lord, and cursed if Avoic doesn’t
side with the old tailor and kick us out of the warband! Cursed
unjust, I say. He let Nyn come back, though, because the stupid
lass had to go and get a child, and so Nyn had to marry
her.”
Maer sounded so indignant that Nevyn laughed aloud. Maer drew
himself up square-shouldered and glared at him.
“Don’t you think it was unjust?”
“Umph, well. But you’re the first lad I’ve
ever met who got that dagger because of a prank.”
“That’s been the tale of my days, good sir. I only
want a bit of fun, and ye gods, everyone goes and takes it
wrong.”
Late on a summer afternoon, Nevyn and his guard rode to the top
of a rise and saw Cannobaen spread out along the little stream
called Y Brog. At the sight of the round, thatched houses, Maer
broke into a wide grin.
“Ale tonight with supper, my lord. Or do they even have a
tavern in this hole?”
“They did the last time I was here. But that was a long
time ago.”
At a hundred families, mostly of farmers or fishermen, Cannobaen
was about twice as big as Nevyn had been remembering it. There was
a good-sized proper inn on the old site o fthe small tavern. After
he rented a chamber, Nevyn ordered ale and a meal for himself and
stood the silver dagger to one last dinner, too. The innkeep, a
stout fellow named Ewsn, hovered nearby.
“Do you get much trade through here?” Nevyn said,
mostly to be polite.
“We’ve got a merchant in our town who buys and sells
off in the west—with those tribes with the strange-sounding
names. Men from Aberwyn come through every now and then to buy the
horses he brings back.” He hesitated, sucking stumps of
teeth. “Be you a herbman, sir? My wife has this pain in her
joints, you see, and so I was wondering.”
“I am at that. In the morning I’ll be glad to have a
talk with her if she’d like.”
The morning, however, apparently wasn’t good enough for
the innkeep’s wife, Samwna. While she served Nevyn and Maer
their dinner, Samwna also treated them to a long recital of
symptoms as well rehearsed as a bard’s performance. While
they ate roast beef and turnips, they heard all about the
mysterious pain in her joints, strange aches in the small of her
back, and night sweats, sometimes hot, sometimes cold. With the
apple tart, they heard about headaches and odd moments when she
felt quite dizzy.
“It’s all related to your woman’s change of
life,” Nevyn said. “I’ve got soothing herbs that
should help a good deal.”
Maer went scarlet and almost choked.
“My most humble thanks.” Samwna made him a little
curtsy. “I’ve been wondering and wondering, I have.
Here, you’re not thinking of settling in our town, are you,
good sir? It’s been years and years since there’s been
a herbman in our neighborhood.”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m getting too old to
wander the roads, and I want a nice quiet place to settle
down.”
“Oh, towns don’t come much quieter than
Cannobaen!” Samwna paused to laugh. “Why, the big
excitement lately was when one of Lord Pertyc’s boarhounds
killed two chickens over at Myna’s farm.”
Nevyn smiled, well pleased. Idly he rubbed the front of his
shirt and touched the opal hidden inside. If there’s trouble,
he thought, it can cursed well stay in Aberwyn! No doubt remote
Cannobaen would be undisturbed by these rumors of rebellion.
“By every hell, how can you be so stubborn?”
“It comes with my family title.” Pertyc Maelwaedd
touched the device on his shirt. “We’re Badgers, my
friend. We hold on.”
“By that line of thinking, we Bears should have to stay in
holes.” Danry, Tieryn Cernmeton and Pertyc’s closest
friend, perched on the edge of a carved table and considered him.
“But cursed if I will.”
“Why do you think I nicknamed you the Falcon, back when we
were lads? But this time you’re flying too high.”
They were sequestered in Pertyc’s small study behind a
barred door, and a good thing, too, because Danry was talking
treason. Since Pertyc had a taste for clutter, the room was
crowded: a large writing table, a shelf with twenty leather-bound
codices, two chairs, a scatter of small Bardek carpets, and on the
wall, a pair of moth-eaten stag’s heads, trophies of some
long-forgotten hunt of a remote ancestor. Pertyc’s helm
perched jauntily on the antlers of the largest stag, and his shield
was propped up against a book-laden lectern carved with intertwined
dogs and badgers.
“I’ve always liked my demesne,” Pertyc
remarked absently. “So remote here on the border. Nice and
quiet. Easy to stay out of trouble in a place like
Cannobaen.”
“You can’t stay out of this. That’s what you
don’t understand.”
“Indeed? Just watch.”
Danry sighed again. He was a tall man, with a florid face that
usually simmered on the edge of rage, and thick blond mustaches
that were usually damp with mead. Lately, however, Danry had been
withdrawn, and the mustaches had a ratty look, as if he’d
been chewing on them in hard thought. Pertyc had been wondering
what was on his friend’s mind. Now he was finally hearing.
Ever since the forced joining of the two kingdoms some sixty years
before, there’d been plenty of grumbling in Eldidd, a longing
for independence and past glory simmering like porridge over a slow
fire. Now the fire had flared up; the porridge was beginning to
boil over.
“I’d hoped to come around to this slowly,”
Danry said at last. “But it’s hard to believe
you’d be too blind to see the ale in your own
tankard.”
“I’ve never much liked sour ale. What does it matter
to me if I pledge to a new king or an old one?”
“Perro! It’s the honor of the thing.”
“How are you going to have a rebellion without a king to
rally round? Or have you ferretted out some obscure
heir?”
“That’s a rotten way to speak about him, but we
have.” Danry picked up a leather dog collar from the
cluttered writing desk and began fiddling with the brass buckles.
“The lad is related to the old blood royal twice over on the
female line, and there’s a lass who’s related on the
male line. If we marry them, well, it’s claim enough.
They’re both good Eldidd blood, and that’s the true
thing.” He ran the end of the collar through the buckle and
pulled it tight. “You know, my friend, your claim to the
throne is as good as his.”
“It’s not! I don’t have a claim at all. None,
do you hear me? My most honorable ancestor abdicated; I’m
descended from his common-born wife, and that’s that! No
priest in the kingdom would back a claim on my part, and you know
it.”
“There are ways of handling priests.” Danry tossed
the collar aside. “But you’re right, no doubt. I was
just thinking of a thing or two.”
“Listen, even jackals pull down the kill before they start
squabbling over the meat.”
Danry winced.
“When I came to my manhood,” Pertyc went on,
“I swore an oath to King Aeryc to serve him well, serve him
faithfully, and put his life above my own. Seems to me I heard you
and the rest of our friends swear one like it, too.”
“Ah, by the hells! No oath is binding when it’s
sworn under coercion.”
“No one held a sword to my throat. I didn’t see one
at yours, either.”
With a curse, Danry heaved himself up from the table and began
trying to pace round the cluttered chamber.
“The coercion lies in the past. They stripped Eldidd of
its rights and its independence under threat of open slaughter.
It’s the honor of the thing, Perro.”
“If I break an oath, I don’t have any honor left
worth fighting over.” Idly Pertyc touched the device on his
shirt.
“Ah, curse your horseshit Badgers! If you don’t come
in with us, what then? Are you going to run to this false king with
the tale?”
“Never, and all for your sake. Do you think I’d put
my sworn friend’s neck in a noose? I’d die
first.”
Danry sighed, looking away.
“I wish you’d stay out, too.” Pertyc said.
“And I’d die before I’d do that. You can
trumpet your neutrality to the four corners of the world, but
you’re still going to be in the middle of it. What do you
think we’re going to do, muster our warbands right down in
Aberwyn? When the spring comes, we’re meeting in the forest,
here in the west.”
“You scummy bastards!”
Danry laughed, tossing his head back and giving him a friendly
slap on the shoulder.
“We’ll do our best not to disturb his lordship or
trample his kitchen garden. Now here, spring’s a long way
away. I have faith you’ll be mustering with us when the time
comes. It might be dangerous if you didn’t. You know
I’d never lift my hand against your dun and kin, but, well,
as for the others . . . ” He let the words trail
significantly away.
“Neutrals have found themselves stripped and sieged
before, huh? You’re right enough. You tell our friends that
I’ll protect my lands to my last breath, whether they claim
to have a king on their side or not.”
“They wouldn’t expect any less from you. I warn you,
though, when we win this fight, you can’t expect much honor
or standing in the new kingdom.”
“I’ll take my chances on that. I’d rather die
a beggar than break my sworn oath.” Pertyc smiled faintly.
“And the word, my friend, isn’t ‘when’ you
win. It’s ‘if.’”
Danry turned red, a hectic flush of rage across his cheeks.
Pertyc held his gaze until Danry forced out a smile.
“Let us give the gods their due,” Danry said.
“Who knows where a man’s Wyrd will lead him? Very well.
‘If’ it is.”
Pertyc walked outside with Danry to the ward, where his horse
was standing saddled and ready at the gates. Danry mounted, said a
pleasant and normal farewell, then trotted down the road to the
north. As Pertyc watched the dun disappearing, he felt danger like
a cold ache in his stomach. The dolts, he thought, and maybe
I’m the biggest dolt of all! He turned and looked over his
dun, a small, squat broch standing inside a timber-laced wall
without ramparts or barbicans. Although his demesne was continually
short on coin, he decided it would be wise to spend what he had on
fortifications, even if he could only afford to build some
earthworks and ditches. Whatever else it may have lacked, his dun
had the best watchtower in the kingdom for the Cannobaen light,
where every night a beacon burned to warn passing ships of where
submerged rocks just off the coast. If the rebellion swept a siege
his way, it occurred to Pertyc, he could perhaps parlay keeping the
light into a reason for keeping his neutrality. Perhaps. The dread
in his stomach turned to burning ice.
Later that same day, he was drinking in his great hall when a
page came with the news that there was a silver dagger at the
gates. Since he had only ten men in his warband, he had Maer shown
in straightaway.
“I’ll take you on, silver dagger. I don’t know
when we’ll see action, but another man might come in handy.
Your keep, and if there’s fighting, a silver piece a
week.”
“My thanks, my lord. Winter’s coming on, and the
roof over my head’s going to be welcome.”
“Good. Uh, Maer? If you shave that mustache off,
it’ll grow in thicker next time, you know.”
Maer drew himself up to his full height.
“Is his lordship suggesting or ordering?”
“Merely suggesting. No offense intended.”
Pertyc turned him over to his captain, then went up to the
women’s hall, a comfortable sunny room that covered half the
second story of the tower. It was the domain of his
lordship’s old nurse, Maudda, all stooped back and long white
hair these days, but still doing her best to serve the clan by
tending Pertyc’s four-year-old daughter, Becyla. Pertyc felt
very bad about keeping the old woman working, but there was, quite
simply, no one else who could handle the lass. As headstrong as her
mother, he thought, then winced at the very mental mention of his
absent wife. He found them sitting in a patch of sun by the window,
Becyla in a chair, Maudda standing behind, keeping up a running
flow of chatter as she combed the lass’s hair, but as soon as
Pertyc stepped in, Becyla twisted free and rushed to her
father.
“Da, Da, I want to go riding. Please, Da,
please?”
“In a bit, my sweet.”
“Now!” She tossed back her head and howled in
rage.
“Stop that! You’re upsetting poor Maudda.”
With a visible wrench of will she fell silent, turning to look
at her beloved nurse. She was a beautiful child, Becyla, with her
moonbeam-pale hair and enormous gray eyes, tall and slender for her
age and as graceful as a fawn when she moved.
“Now, lambkin,” Maudda said. “You’ll go
riding soon enough. Your da’s the lord, you see, and we all
must do what he says. The gods made him a lord, and
we—”
“Horseshit!” She stamped her foot. “But
I’ll be good if you say so.”
With a sigh and a watery smile, Maudda held out her arms, and
Becyla ran to her. I’ve got to get the poor old dear some
help, Pertyc told himself. He had this thought with the same
tedious regularity with which he first enlisted young nursemaids,
then watched them retreat.
“Maudda, I wanted your advice on somewhat,” he said
aloud. “I’ve been thinking about my son. Do you think
my cousin would take it amiss if I rode to his dun and fetched
Adraegyn home for the winter?”
“Ah. You’ve been hearing them rumors of trouble,
then.”
“Ye gods, do you know everything?”
“Everything that matters, my lord.”
“Please, Da, go get him,” Becyla put in. “I
miss Draego.”
“No doubt you do,” Pertyc said. “I think it
might be best all round if he came home. I can train him myself, if
it comes to that.”
“Da?” Becyla broke in. “I want to go with
you.”
“You can’t, my sweet. Young ladies don’t go
riding round the countryside like silver daggers.”
“I want to go!”
“I said you can’t.”
“I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what
your dumb gods say, either. I don’t want to be a lady. I want
to go riding. I want to go with you when you get Draego.”
With a shriek she threw herself down on the floor and began to
kick.
“If I may be so bold, my lord?” Maudda pitched her
voice loud over the general noise. “Do get out and leave her
to me.”
Pertyc fled the field. He was beginning to wish he’d done
what his wife wanted and let her take his daughter away with her.
He’d refused only out of a stubborn honor. He could only
thank the gods for making Adraegyn a reasonable and fairly human
being.
“Now, you know who does have a little cottage,”
Samwna said thoughtfully. “Wersyn the merchant. He had it
built for his mother, you see, when she was widowed, but the poor
lady passed to the Otherlands just this spring. No surprise, truly,
because she was seventy winters if she was a day old. She always
said sixty-four, but hah! you can tell those things, good sir. But
anyway, it’s a nice stout little place with a big
hearth.”
“Does it have a bit of land around it?”
“Oh, it does, because she liked her flowers and suchlike.
Besides, it had to be a good stone’s throw away from
Wergyn’s house. Moligga—that’s his wife—put
her foot down about that, and I can’t say I blame her,
because old Bwdda was the nosy type, always lifting the lids of her
daughter-in-law’s pots, if you take my meaning, good
sir.”
Nevyn began to remember why he normally avoided small towns.
On the other hand, the cottage turned out to be both suitable
and cheap, and he rented it immediately, then spent the rest of the
day unpacking and settling in. On the morrow, he decided that while
he’d keep his riding horse, the mule would only be a
nuisance. Samwna, that font of all local information, told him to
try selling it to a farmer named Nalyn.
“He lives out near Lord Pertyc’s dun. He married the
farm, you see, or I should say, it still belongs to poor dear
Myna—she was widowed so young, poor thing, and her with two
daughters to raise on her own—but now one of the daughters is
married. Lidyan, that is, and it’s good for them to have a
man to work the fields again, I must say, so it’s
Nalyn’s farm in a way, like.”
Nevyn made his escape at last and rode out, with the mule on a
tether rope, and found the farm. When Nevyn dismounted near the
shabby thatched roundhouse, he could hear someone yelling inside. A
man’s voice, thick with rage, drifted out, followed by the
sound of a woman weeping and pleading. Ye gods, he thought, does
this Nalyn beat his poor wife? A second woman’s voice yelled
back, cracking in a string of curses. A young heavyset man came
stalking out of the house. Just as he took a step out of the
doorway, an egg came sailing after him, caught him on the back of
the head, and shattered. With an oath, the man started to turn back
in, then saw Nevyn.
“My apologies,” Nevyn said. “I just heard in
the village you might want to buy a mule. I can come back
later.”
“No need.” The young farmer was busily trying to get
the egg off the back of his head with both hands. “I do
indeed need a mule, though my sister’s stubborn enough for a
whole rotten herd of them. Let me just wash this off at the
well.”
Laughter rang in the doorway, and a young woman, about
Maer’s age, came strolling out. She was pretty, raven-haired
and blue-eyed, but not truly beautiful, with her hair cropped off
short in the way many farm women wore their hair, out of the way of
hard work. Her dress was dirty, much mended, and hitched up around
her waist at the kirtle to leave her ankles and feet bare.
“And who’s this, Nalyn? Another of your candidates
for my betrothal?”
“Hold your cursed tongue, Glae!” Nalyn snapped.
“He’s better-looking than Doclyn, aged or not. No
offense, good sir, but my beloved brother-in-law is bound and
determined to marry me off to get rid of me, you see. Are you in
the market for a young wife, by any chance?”
“Glae!” Nalyn howled. “I said hold your
tongue!”
“Don’t give me orders, you afterbirth of a
miscarried wormy sow.”
With an anguished glance in Nevyn’s direction Nalyn walked
off to the well to wash away the egg. The lass leaned comfortably
against the doorjamb and gave Nevyn a brilliant smile that
transformed her face for one brief moment. Then she was merely
wary, and plain, her eyes too suspicious and cold for beauty.
“Here, good sir, I haven’t even asked your name.
Mine’s Glaenara. You must’ve been talking with the
village women if you knew we were in the market for a
mule.”
“Well, I did happen to speak with Samwna. My name is
Nevyn, and that’s a name, not a jest.”
“Indeed? Well, then, Lord Nobody, welcome to our humble
farm. Samwna’s a good woman, isn’t she? And her
daughter Braedda’s my best friend. As meek as a suckling
lamb, but I do like her.”
Glaenara ran her hands down the mule’s legs, thumped it on
the chest, then grabbed its head and pried its mouth open to look
at its teeth before the startled mule could even object. His wet
shirt in his hand, Nalyn came back and watched sourly.
“Now, I’m the one who’s saying if we buy that
mule or not.”
“Then take a look at its mouth yourself.”
When Nalyn went to do so, the by now wary mule promptly bit him
on the arm. Howling with laughter, Glaenara cuffed the mule so hard
that it let go. Nevyn grabbed Nalyn’s arm and looked at it:
mule bites could turn nasty, but fortunately, this one hadn’t
broken the skin. Nalyn was cursing a steady stream under his
breath.
“Just bruised, I’d say,” Nevyn said
soothingly. “My apologies.”
“Wasn’t you,” Nalyn growled. “Glae,
I’m going to beat you so hard one of these days.”
“Just try.” Glaenara set her hands on her hips and
smiled at him.
At that, the other two women came running out of the house.
Glaenara’s mother was gray and thin, her face drawn and
etched deep with exhausted lines. Her sister was pretty, with less
strength but more harmony in her wide-eyed face. Sniveling, the
sister caught her husband’s arm and looked up, pleading with
him silently. The mother turned to Glaenara.
“Glae, please? Not in front of a stranger.”
With a sigh, Glaenara turned tame, coming over to slip her arm
around her mother’s frail waist and give her a kiss on the
cheek. Nalyn patted his wife’s arm, looked Nevyn’s way,
and blushed again. For a moment they all stood there in a miserable
tableau; then Glaenara led her mother back to the house. With one
backward glance at Nevyn, the sister hurried after.
“My apologies for my little sister,” Nalyn said.
“My good sir, no man in his right mind would hold you
responsible for anything that lass does.”
As he was riding back to the village, Nevyn met Lord
Pertyc’s warband, coming two abreast in a cloud of dust. At
the head rode the lord himself, a tall but slender man who reminded
him strikingly of Prince Mael, his distant ancestor, with his
raven-haired Eldidd good looks and heavy-lidded dark blue eyes.
Beside him on a gray pony was a young lad of about eight, so much
like the lord that Nevyn assumed it was his son. As they passed,
Pertyc gave Nevyn a wave and a nod; Nevyn bowed gravely. Behind
came ten men with badgers painted on their shields. At the very
rear, riding alone in the dust but grinning as cheerfully as ever,
was Maer. When he saw Nevyn, he waved.
“I’ve got myself a nice warm spot in a
badger’s hole. You brought me good luck, Nevyn.”
“Good, good! I’ve settled into the village. No doubt
we’ll see each other from time to time.”
“You know what?” Adraegyn said.
“I don’t,” Maer said. “What?”
“Da says he wants to hire more silver daggers if he can
find them.”
“Does he now? Do you know why?”
“I’ll wager there’s going to be a war. Why
else would he come fetch me back from Cousin
Macco’s?”
“No doubt you’re right, truly.”
Adraegyn considered him for a moment. He was perched on the edge
of the watering trough and watching while Maer cleaned his tack.
Maer enjoyed the young lordling’s company; as the eldest of a
family of seven, he was used to having children tagging after
him.
“Do you have to polish that dagger a lot? Silver plates
and stuff get dirty truly fast.”
“So they do. But the dagger’s different. It’s
not entirely made of silver, you see.”
“Can I look at it? Or is that rude to ask?”
“You can look at mine, but never ask another silver
dagger, all right? Most of us are a bit touchy about it. Now be
careful. It’s as sharp as the Lord of Hell’s front
tooth.”
Grinning, Adraegyn took the dagger and hefted it, then risked a
gingerly touch on the blade with the ball of his thumb.
“Have you ever slain a man with this dagger?”
“I haven’t, but then, I haven’t had it very
long. Maybe I’ll get my chance if your father rides to
war.”
“I wish I could go, but I’m still learning
stuff.” Adraegyn sighed dramatically. “And I’ve
got to waste all this time learning to read.”
“Truly? Now that’s a strange thing. Why?”
“Da says I have to. All the men in our clan learn to read.
It’s one of the things that makes us Maelwaedds.”
In a few minutes the Maelwaedd himself came strolling over to
lean on the watering trough beside his son.
“It’s always pleasant to see another man
work,” Pertyc said. “Odd, but there you have
it.”
“So it is, my lord. Sometimes I’d be traveling and
stop to watch some poor bastard of a farmer slaving out in the
fields, just to be watching him.”
“Just so. Here, Draego, what are you doing with
Maer’s silver dagger?”
“He let me look at it, Da. That’s all.”
“Careful—those things are blasted sharp.”
“I know, Da!” Somewhat reluctantly, Adraegyn handed
the dagger back to Maer. “Da, I want to go riding. Can I take
my pony down to the village?”
“By all means. Or here.” Pertyc hesistated for a
moment. “Maer, go with him, will you? You can use some of the
spare tack while yours is drying.”
“Done, my lord.” Maer looked up sharply. “Do
you think there might be trouble?”
“The world’s as full of trouble as the sea is full
of fish. I don’t think anything just yet, but listen, Draego,
from now on, when you want to leave the dun, you tell me first and
take one of the men with you.”
“Why? I never used to have to.”
“Do as I say and hold your tongue about it. I’ll
tell you more when there’s more to tell.”
There was a fair amount of activity down in Cannobaen that
afternoon, because it was market day. Most of the farmers and
craftsmen had their goods spread out on blankets on the ground,
though the weaver and local blacksmith did have little stalls. As
Maer and Adraegyn strolled around, the lad would stop every now and
then and ask a villager how his wife was doing or if his children
were well, and he managed to remember everyone’s name in a
most impressive manner. At the edge of the market, a young woman
was sitting behind baskets of eggs. Maer was immediately struck by
her. Although she wasn’t beautiful, she was handsome, with a
slightly malicious touch to her grin and life sparkling in her blue
eyes.
“Who’s that, my lord?” Maer pointed her
out.
“Oh, that’s Glae. She and her kin have the farm next
to our demesne.”
Maer guided the lad over to Glae and her baskets. Tied up behind
her was a mule.
“Good morrow, Glae,” Adraegyn said to her.
“Good morrow, my lord. Come down for a look at your
market?”
“I have.” Adraegyn waved at Maer. “This is
Maer. He’s my bodyguard now.”
“Oh, is he?” Glae gave Maer a cool appraisal.
“And a silver dagger at that.”
“I am.” Maer made her a half bow. “But I beg
and pray that you won’t think the less of me for
it.”
“Since I think naught of you one way or the other, I can
hardly think less of you, can I now?”
Maer opened his mouth and shut it again, suddenly at a loss for
words.
“You’ve got a new mule, I see,” Adraegyn
said.
“We do, my lord. We bought it from the new herbman in
town.”
“There’s someone new in town?” Adraegyn was
openly delighted. “Where does he live?”
“In the cottage by Wersyn’s house. And he seems a
wise old man indeed, from what Braedda tells me.”
“Come on, Maer. Let’s go meet him. Maybe he’s
a dweomerman or suchlike.”
“Oh, now here,” Maer said, grinning. “You do
have a taste for the bard’s fancies, don’t
you?”
“Well, you never know. Good morrow, Glae. I hope you sell
a lot of eggs. Come on now, Maer. Let’s go.”
Maer made Glae one last bow, which she acknowledged with a flick
of her eyes, then hurried after his half-sized commander.
They found Nevyn out in the garden in front of his cottage,
digging up a flower bed as vigorously as a man a third of his age.
Adraegyn hailed him, leaned on the fence, then gasped in sudden
delight.
“Oh, your garden’s full of Wildfolk! They’re
all dancing round and round.”
Nevyn grunted in sharp surprise. Maer started to laugh, then
choked it back for fear of hurting the lad’s
feelings—he was already blushing scarlet at his lapse.
“I mean, uh, I’m sorry, I mean, I know there
aren’t really Wildfolk . . . ”
“What?” Nevyn’s voice was perfectly mild.
“Of course there are Wildfolk. And you were quite right the
first time. My garden’s full of them.”
It was nice of the old man, Maer thought, to help the lad over
his awkward moment with a little lie. Adraegyn was beaming up at
Nevyn.
“You see them, too? Truly?”
“I do.”
Adraegyn spun around to consider Maer.
“And you must, too. You can tell us, Maer. We all
do.”
“What, my lord?”
“Well, come on. That big blue sprite follows you all over,
you know. She must like you. Don’t you see her?”
For the second time that afternoon, Maer found himself
speechless. He stared openmouthed while an awkward silence grew
painful.
“My lord,” Nevyn said gently. “Sometimes the
Wildfolk take a liking to someone for reasons of their own. I
don’t think Maer does see her, or any of them, for that
matter. Do you, Maer?”
“I don’t, truly.”
“Now tell me, Maer. Can you see the wind?”
“What? Of course not! No one can see the wind.”
“Just so. But it’s real enough.”
For the briefest of moments Maer found himself wavering. Did
Adraegyn and old Nevyn really see Wildfolk? Did those fabled little
creatures actually exist? Oh, don’t be a stupid dolt! he told
himself. Of course they don’t!
Later, when they rode back to the dun, Lord Pertyc happened to
be walking across the ward just as they trotted in the gates. A
servant came running to take Adraegyn’s horse. As soon as he
was down, the lad ran, dodging away from his father’s
affectionate hand and racing for the shelter of the broch.
“Somewhat wrong?” Pertyc said to Maer.
“Uh, well, my lord, your lad wanted to go meet the new
herbman in town, so I took him, but truly, I wonder if the old
man’s daft.”
“Daft? Did he scare the lad or suchlike?”
“Not at all, but he scared me. Here, my lord, I
don’t mean to open old wounds or suchlike, but does young
Adraegyn talk about the Wildfolk a lot?”
“Oh, that!” Pertyc smiled in open relief.
“That’s all, was it? Did the herbman tease him about
it? Well, no doubt the fellow was startled to hear a lad his age
still babbling about Wildfolk.”
“Er, not exactly, my lord. The old man says he can see
them too.”
Late on the morrow morn, Nevyn was working out in back, planting
a few quick-growing herbs and hoping that they would reach a decent
size before the days turned short, when he heard a horseman riding
up to the cottage. Trowel in hand, he hurried round and saw Lord
Pertyc dismounting at the front gate.
“Good morrow, my lord. To what do I owe this honor of a
visit? I hope no one’s ill at your dun.”
“Oh, thanks be to holy Sebanna, we’re all healthy
enough. Just thought I’d have a chat, since you’re new
here and all.”
Nevyn stuck the trowel in his belt and swung open the gate.
Pertyc followed him in, looking wide-eyed round the garden as if he
expected to see spirits leering out from under every bush. The
place was full of spirits, of course, little gray gnomes
sucking their fingers, blue sprites, ratty-haired and long-nosed,
grinning to show pointed teeth, sylphs like airy crystals, darting
this way and that. Inside, near the hearthstone, Wildfolk sat on
the table and the bench and climbed on the shelves full of herbs.
On the table a leather-bound book lay open.
“Ye gods!” Pertyc said. “That’s my most
illustrious ancestor’s book!”
“One of them, at least. Being here made me think of it.
Have you ever read it?”
“I take it on, every now and then. When every Maelwaedd
man comes of age, his father tells him to read the Ethics.
So you plow through a bit, and then your father admits that he
could never finish the wretched thing, either, and you know
you’re truly a man among men.”
“I see. Won’t you honor me by sitting down, my lord?
I can fetch you some ale.”
“Oh, no need.” Pertyc had an anxious eye for the
shelves of strange herbs and drugs. “Can’t stay more
than a minute, truly. Er, well, you see, there was somewhat I
wanted to ask you about.”
“The Wildfolk? I figured that Maer would tell you about
what happened.”
“He did indeed. Um, you were just humoring my lad,
weren’t you?”
A yellow gnome reached over and closed the book with a little
puff of dust. Pertyc yelped.
“I wasn’t, actually.” Nevyn said. “Does
his lordship truly doubt that young Adraegyn can see the
Wildfolk?”
“Well I can’t say that I do, but I like to keep it
in the family, you know.”
“Ah. I take it that his lordship’s wife is a woman
of the Westfolk.”
“Well, she was.”
“My apologies, my lord. I didn’t realize that
she’d ridding through the gates of the Otherlands.”
“Naught of the sort, if you mean did she die.” A
tone of injured pride crept into Pertyc’s voice. “As
far as I know, anyway, she’s alive and well and no doubt as
nasty and wrong-minded as she ever was. I suppose I’m being
unfair. I don’t know how I ever thought she could live in a
dun and be the proper wife of a noble lord, but by all the ice in
all the hells, she might have tried!”
“I see.” Nevyn suppressed a grin. “I take it
that you didn’t stand in her way when she decided to
leave.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered one jot if I’d gone
down on my knees and begged her to stay.” All at once he
turned faintly pink. “But why I’m burdening your ears
with all of this, I don’t know. You seem to be an easy man to
talk to, Nevyn.”
“My thanks, my lord. It’s a valuable thing in a
herbman, being easy to talk to.”
“No doubt. Herbman, huh? Is that all you are?”
“And what else would my lordship think I am?”
“Now, I know that most men would mock the dweomer, good
sir, but we Maelwaedd’s don’t. There’s bits and
pieces about it in Prince Mael’s books, for one thing, and
well, we pass the lore along. We’re like badgers, truly. We
hold on.”
“Even to your oath to a foreign king?”
Lord Pertyc’s face went dead white. Nevyn smiled, thinking
that this exercise in logic must seem an act of magic.
“We do,” Pertyc said at last. “Aeryc’s
the king I swore to serve, and serve him I will.”
“With only ten men, it’s going to be hard to stand
against the king’s enemies.”
“I know. A badger can tear one boarhound to pieces, but
the pack will get him in the end. But a vow’s a vow, and
that’s that. They just might honor my neutrality, or so I can
hope, anyway.” All at once his lordship grinned.
“Besides, I’ve already hired one silver dagger, so
I’ve actually got eleven men now. Maybe more will ride my
way.”
“That reminds, my lord. Do you know why the silver daggers
never ride together as a troop, the way they did in the old
days?”
“Well, one of the kings forbade them to. I suppose they
were too dangerous. The kingmakers—that’s what they
were called, you know. A warband that’s made a king can
unmake one just as easily.” Pertyc frowned, remembering
something. “Let’s see, in this book I have at home it
says that after the civil wars all the free troops were banned.
That’s right, I remember now. It was Maryn’s son. His
councillors wanted him to ban the silver daggers, too, but he
refused, because of the service they’d paid his father. But
he didn’t want an independent army riding round causing
trouble, either, so he ruled that they could only hire out as one
man or two together.”
“Ah, I see. Well, too bad in a way. You could hire them if
only they still existed, eh? But then, maybe this rebellion will
stay in Aberwyn.”
Pertyc looked away so fast that Nevyn knew that he had
information to the contrary.
“There are times when trouble spreads like fire in dry
grass,” Nevyn said. “No one knows which way the wind
will blow.”
“Just so. Well, no doubt I’m keeping you from your
work. Good day.”
All summer, Glaenara had been curing cheeses in round wooden
molds. When the four biggest wheels were ready, she loaded them
onto the mule and took them to Lord Pertyc’s dun as part of
their taxes. Since it was drowsy-hot, she went barefoot, saving the
leather of her one pair of shoes for the winter. Although Nalyn
kept urging her to get some boots made down in the village, she
preferred to scant herself rather than take what she thought of as
his charity. Until Nalyn appeared, Glaenara had been the strong one
in the family, keeping up her mother and sister’s spirits
after her father died, working harder than most lads to scrape a
subsistence living out of their farm. Just when I’m old
enough to plow like a man, he comes strolling in, she thought
bitterly. But there was no doubt that Mam and Lida were happier
now. Perhaps that was the worst blow of all.
The gates to Dun Cannobaen stood open, and the ward was its
usual slow confusion—servants strolling about their tasks,
the riders sitting out in the sun dicing for coppers, Lord Pertyc
himself lounging on the steps with a tankard of ale. Glaenara
dropped him a curtsy, which he acknowledged by getting up. Although
she considered herself a world below him, Glaenara was fond of her
local lord because he was a kind man, and his unfortunate marriage
had given everyone something exciting to talk about for years now.
Rulers have been loved, after all, for a good deal less.
“Looks like cheese,” Pertyc said. “What kind,
yellow or white?”
“Yellow, my lord. It’s awfully good.”
Pertyc set his tankard down and drew his dagger to cut himself
off a slice. When he took a bite, he nodded in satisfaction.
“So it is. Goes well with ale, an important thing round
here, truly.”
Pertyc cut himself another, thicker slice, retrieved is ale, and
returned to his steps. Glaenara led the mule round back to the
kitchen door and began unloading the cheese. She’d just swung
two wheels out when Maer the silver dagger came running up and made
her a low bow.
“Now here, fair maid, those look heavy. Let me carry them
for you.”
“Not heavy at all. Only twenty pound each.”
Maer, however, insisted on hefting three and leaving her only
one to carry into the kitchen. As he laid his wheels down on the
long wooden table, it occurred to Glaenara that he was trying to be
polite to her. The idea came as a surprise.
“Well, my thanks,” she said.
“Oh, I’d pay you any service gladly.”
Another surprise: he was flirting with her. Caught off guard,
Glaenara turned away and began talking with the cook, an old friend
of her mother’s, leaving Maer to hover helplessly in the
doorway. She was hoping that he would just go away, but he waited
until she and the cook were done with their chat. As she was
leaving, Maer grabbed the mule’s lead rope and led him to the
gates for her.
“Truly, it was good to see you,” Maer said.
“Was it? Why?”
“Well, uh.” Maer began fiddling with the end of the
lead rope. “Well, it’s always good to see a pretty
lass, truly. Especially one with spirit.”
Glaenara snorted and grabbed the rope back from him.
“My thanks for helping me haul the cheese. I’ve got
to get back to my work.”
“Can I walk with you a ways?”
“You can’t. Or . . . wait a minute. You said
you’d pay me a service?”
“I will. Just name it.”
“Then shave that beastly mustache off. It makes your face
look dirty and naught more.”
Maer howled, clapping a hand over his upper lip in self-defense.
Glae marched away, sure that she’d seen the last of him. Yet
that very afternoon, she was taking a couple of buckets of
vegetable scraps out to the hogs when she saw him leading his horse
in through the gates. She stopped and stared; the mustache was
gone, sure enough. Nalyn came strolling over with a hoe in his
hands and gave Maer a cold looking-over.
“Good morrow, sir,” Maer said. “I was wanting
to speak to Glaenara, you see.”
“Oh, were you now? And just what do you want with my
sister?”
“And what’s it to you who I talk with?”
Glaenara snapped.
“Now hold your tongue. I just want to get a look at a man
who comes courting you with a silver dagger in his belt.”
“Now here!” Maer put it, but feebly.
“I’ve got honorable intentions, I assure
you.”
Nalyn and Glaenara both ignored him and turned to glare at each
other.
“You’re too young to judge a man,” Nalyn
snarled. “I’ve had the experience to know a rotten
apple from a sound one.”
“Who are you calling rotten?”
“No one—yet. Maybe I’m only married kin, but
I’m the only brother you’ve got, and cursed if
I’ll let you hang about talking with silver daggers and other
scum of the road.”
“Don’t you call Maer scum! I won’t stand for
it.”
“Oh, won’t you now?” Nalyn said with a smug
little grin. “And how do you know his name, and how come
you’re so quick to defend him?”
Glaenara grabbed one of her buckets of pig slops, swung, and
emptied it over Nalyn’s head.
“I’ll talk to who I want to!”
Predictably, the noise brough Lidyan running—and shrieking
at the sight of her husband covered with carrot peels and radish
leaves. Maer doubled over laughing.
“Flowers to the fair,” Maer choked out. “And
slops to the hogs. Ye gods, you’ve got a good hand with the
bucket. He should be glad you weren’t sweeping out the cow
barn!”
A piece of carrot peel had flown his way and stuck to his shirt.
He plucked it off and handed it to Glaenara with a courtly bow.
“A small token of my esteem. Now I’d best get out of
here before your brother takes a hoe to me.”
“Brother-in-law, that’s all. And don’t you
forget it.”
The next time Glaenara went to market, she sold all her cheese
and eggs early in the day, then went over to the inn. As she was
tying up the mule out back, Braedda, Samwna’s pretty blond
daughter, came running out to catch Glaenara’s arm and lean
close like a conspirator. They were exactly the same age, although
Braedda looked younger, just because her hands were soft and her
face had been spare the rough winds of the fields.
“Ganedd and his father got home last night,” Braedda
said, giggling.
“Oh, wonderful! Is your father going to ask about the
betrothal?”
“He’s going over this evening, right after dinner.
Oh, Glae, I can hardly wait! I want to marry Ganno so
bad.”
Out in the back of the stables was a shed, filled with sacks of
milled oats and tied shocks of hay. Glaenara and Braedda went
there, as they usually did, to talk out of the hearing of her
parents. They’d barely started their gossip, though, when
Ganedd himself appeared, opening the door without knocking. He was
a tall lad, filling out to a man built more like a warrior than a
merchant, with pale blue eyes and golden hair, a sign that
somewhere in his clan’s history was some Deverry blood.
“I’d best go,” Glaenara said.
“I’ll be in for the market next week, Brae.”
Ganedd smiled briefly, then gallantly opened the door for her.
As she led the mule out of the village, Glaenara was wishing she
felt less jealous of her friend’s good fortune. Although she
rather disliked Ganedd, he was a far better catch than any man that
was likely to come courting her. Just as she was turning into the
road, she happened across Nevyn, riding in. He made her a bow from
the saddle, surprisingly limber for one who looked so old.
“In for the market, were you?”
“I was, sir. And a good day to you.”
He smiled, then suddenly leaned forward, staring into her eyes.
For a moment she felt as if she’d been turned to stone and
his cold gaze was a chisel, slicing into her soul; then he released
her with a small nod.
“And a good day to you, lass. Oh, wait, I just thought of
somewhat. Would you like to earn four coppers a week, doing my
laundry and sweeping out my cottage and suchlike?”
“I would indeed.”
“Splendid! Then come in tomorrow, because I’m afraid
I’ve let things pile up a bit. After this, two mornings a
week should do it.”
“Well and good, then. I’ll be in before
noon.”
As he rode his way, Nevyn was thinking of the strange vagaries
of Wyrd. The last time he’d known this woman, she’d
been queen of all Deverry and the virtual regent of Cerrmor while
her royal husband was on campaign. The oddest thing of all, though,
wasn’t the obvious change in her fortunes; it was that
he’d pitied her even more when she’d been queen.
Out in the paddock behind the merchant’s big wooden house,
twelve Western Hunter colts nibbled at the grass or stood drowsing
head down in the warm sun, blood bays and chestnuts, mostly, but
off to one side was a perfect strawberry roan, Ganedd’s
favorite. When he leaned on the fence, the roan came over to have
his ears scratched.
“I’m thinking of giving that colt to the gwerbret in
Aberwyn,” Wersyn said. “It’s been a while since
I’ve given his grace a token of our esteem.”
“This lad will make a good warhorse, truly.”
“Just so. You know, I think I’ll let you be the one
to deliver him to his grace. It’s time he knew your name as
my heir.”
“Uh, well, Da, I’ve been thinking,
and . . . ”
“You’re not going to sea! I’m sick to death of
having this discussion. You’re my son, and we deal in horses,
and that’s that.”
“You’ve got Avyl! He’s your son, too,
isn’t he? He’ll make a fine horse trader! You say so
yourself.”
“You’re the eldest son, and that’s
that.”
Wersyn had his arms crossed over his chest, a sure sign that
arguing was futile. Ganedd turned on his heel and stalked off in
the direction of town. At times he wished that he had the guts to
just run away. If he could only find a merchant captain who
wouldn’t mind offending his father . . . but that was worse
than unlikely down in Aberwyn, where Wersyn was an important man in
the guild. His aimless walk brought him to his grandmother’s
cottage and the new herbman in town, who was grubbing away in the
garden. When Ganedd leaned on the fence to watch, the old man
straightened up, wiped his hands on a bit of rag, then strolled
over to say good morrow.
“And does the cottage suit you, sir?” Ganedd said.
“If it needs repair, I can try to set things
right.”
“Good of you, lad, but so far, everything’s just
fine. I hear you and your father are going to Aberwyn
soon.”
“Tomorrow morning, actually, with the dawn. We’ve
got some tribute to pay to Gwerbret Aberwyn, and then there’s
going to be a big meeting of the merchant guild.”
“Interesting. What about?”
“I’m not allowed to discuss it, sir, with someone
who isn’t in the guild.”
“All right, then. I’ll wager you enjoy going to
Aberwyn, though.”
“Oh, I certainly do! Ye gods, life is so beastly boring
here in Cannobaen.”
“No doubt, but don’t you go with your father when he
trades with the Westfolk?”
“Of course, but so what? They’re just the
Westfolk.”
“Ah. I see.”
And Ganedd was left with the infuriating feeling that the old
man was doing his best not to laugh at him.
That very evening their two fathers arranged the wedding pact,
but the formalities of life demanded that Braedda’s father
come ask Lord Pertyc’s permission to formalize the betrothal
of his daughter to Ganedd the merchant’s son. Technically,
Wersyn should have come with him, but he was already on his way to
Aberwyn with his son and the loan of his lordship’s silver
dagger as well, for a guard. Pertyc approved the betrothal, stood
the man a goblet of mead in celebration, then sent him on his way
with his best wishes. The innkeep was only a few hours gone when
Tieryn Danry turned up at Pertyc’s gates with an escort of
ten men.
All that afternoon, while they drank together in the great hall
and talked idly about everything but the rebellion, Pertyc was
aware of Danry studying him like a tactical problem. Over breakfast
the next day, when Danry suggested that they go hunting alone
rather than organizing a full-scale stag hunt, Pertyc felt a
confrontation coming, but he agreed simply to have it over with.
When they rode out, they took only a lad with a pack mule and some
dogs with them. Danry carried the usual short hunting bow; Pertyc
had a yew longbow, mounted with silver, that had been a wedding
gift from his wife’s brother.
At the edge of the forest, they left the lad with the horses and
went alone on foot to see if they could flush a deer. The dogs, a
pair of the sleek gray breed called gwertrae, were eager, whining
as they sniffed round for tracks and nosed their way through the
bracken and fern. Above them rose the ancient oaks, casting a shade
cold with a hint of winter coming. Pertyc and Danry had hunted
together this way a hundred times, picking their way down narrow
trails as silently as the wild animals they sought. Pertyc found
himself wishing they were both lads again, too young to be troubled
by obligations and vows and the need to ride to war. When at length
they came to a clearing where the sun came down in a long golden
shaft onto the leaf-littered ground, Danry whistled sharply to the
dogs and brought them back to heel.
“They haven’t even found us a trail yet,”
Pertyc said.
Danry turned to him with a faint smile.
“My answer’s still the same,” Pertyc went on.
“I won’t ride with you in the spring.”
“As stubborn as a badger, truly. But I came to tell you
somewhat, and if you love me, then never say where you heard
it.”
“You know I’ll keep silent.”
“Well and good. Then listen, Perro, things are growing
nasty. You were wise to bring your lad home. I’m not the only
man who had thoughts about your claim to the throne. There are some
who’d be glad to put little Draego in your place.”
“They’ll have to kill me to get at the
lad.”
“That’s just what they might do.”
Pertyc went cold, standing in the warm shaft of autumn sun.
“He wouldn’t be the first child to have a throne won
for him by grown men,” Danry said. “Now listen, I
don’t know any more than rumors. No one’s going to
speak honestly of such things in front of me, because they know
you’re my oath-sworn friend. It would be a long sight easier
to stop the talk if you were one of us.”
Pertyc looked away.
“If they come for the lad, how are you going to stop
them?” Danry said. “You can’t afford an army. Ah,
ye gods, I feel torn apart, Perro.”
“Then maybe you should join me and the king.”
Danry winced, shaking his head in honest pain.
“I can’t. My honor would never let me
rest.”
“No more would mine if I joined the rebels. I’ll
warn you somewhat. If your allies decide to try for my lad, then
get ready to watch me die.”
Danry came close to weeping. At his feet, the gwertroedd whined,
dancing a step away, then coming reluctantly back to heel. Far off
in the forests, a bird sang, a flood of defiant melody in the
shadows.
“And if I die, and you live,” Pertyc said slowly,
“I’ll beg you to watch over Adraegyn for me.
He’ll need a faithful dog if he’s surrounded by
wolves.”
Danry nodded his agreement. Pertyc hesitated, considering saying
more, but there was nothing to say. He wanted to have one last day
with his friend when they could pretend that things were as
they’d always been.
“Let’s get on with the hunt, shall we?”
Danry threw up his hand and sent the eager hounds forward. They
coursed slowly through the woods for another hour, neither of them
speaking, the dogs growing sullen and frustrated, until at last the
lead gwertrae stiffened, tossing up its head. An arrow nocked ready
in his bow, Pertyc jogged after until, all at once, they heard a
crash and rustle as a deer broke cover, and the hounds shot forward
as fast as arrows, yapping after a young doe. An arrow whistled:
Danry’s first shot, bouncing off a tree, way too short.
Pertyc fell into his stance, raised his bow, and loosed all in one
smooth motion. The doe reared up and fell, stumbled a few steps,
then fell again as the dogs threw themselves upon her. Drawing his
dagger, Pertyc ran for them, but she was already dead, skewered
neatly through the heart. Shouting, Pertyc kicked the gwertroedd
away. Danry came running, tossing his bow down, and grabbed the
whining hounds by the collars.
“Ye gods, man!” Danry said, grinning.
“You’ve got the best hand with a bow in all of
Eldidd!”
Pertyc merely smiled, thinking that his wife could best him
without half trying. While Dantry was forcing the dogs to lie down
away from the kill, he set his foot against the doe’s neck
and pulled the arrow out with both hands. Unbroken, it was worth
straightening. As he examined the fletching for splits, he was
thinking of his wife, remembering the stories she’d told him
of wars long fought and over. His heart began to pound in a sudden
gruesome hope. When he looked up to find Danry watching him, he
felt as guilty as a caught burglar.
“Perro? I’ll beg you. Please join us.”
“I can’t. I’m too much of a badger, my
friend.”
“Ah, by the hells! Well, so be it.”
Their afternoon was over, the last time they could love each
other without the love turning to nightmare. Pertyc turned away
before he wept.
Late that night, when the rest of the clan was asleep, Pertyc
went up to his study and lit a pair of candles in a silver sconce.
As a draft caught the flames, shadows flew back and forth across
walls and filled his mind with thoughts of winter, his last winter
alive, or so he was counting it. He was determined, though, that
his death would cost his enemies a price as high as he could set
it.
“And would it be true dishonor,” he said to one of
the stag’s heads on the wall, “to bring longbows back
into Eldidd? I’ve always been told so. The question is, do I
give the fart of a two-copper pig about the dishonor? Our rebels,
my cervine friend, are being a good bit more dishonorable with
their wretched plots.”
In the blown shadows the stag’s eyes seemed to move,
pondering his logic; but he never did answer. Pertyc found his
ancestor’s books, actually a collection of treatises, bound
up for the clan in two volumes, stamped with the clan device on the
pale leather covers, and massive things, weighing a good fifteen
pounds each. He propped the second one up on the lectern, lit more
candles, and stood to turn the pages. Touching the book was a
comfort all its own, because it gave him palpable contact with his
history, all those other Maelwaedd lords, going back a hundred
years to the disclaimed prince himself. He doubted, though, that
his clan would live after his own coming death. Once a rebel
faction proclaimed Adraegyn royal, the High King would have to
choice but to kill the boy.
“Ah, stuff the dishonor, then!” he said to the
stag’s head. “They’re murdering my lad, just by
trying to put him on a throne that isn’t his. I’ve got
every right to skewer as many of the miserable bastards as I can
before the end. We’ll see if I can get those merchants to
ride west for me—well, once they get themselves back home,
anyway.”
Then he returned to his reading, which gave him a surprise of
quite another sort.
In the morning, Danry took his leave, riding out at the head of
his escort with a cheery wave of his hand and a jest for his last
farewell. Pertyc had the groom saddle him up a horse, then rode
straight to Nevyn’s cottage. As he walked through the garden,
hot and hushed in the sunlight, Pertyc had the uneasy feeling that
eyes were watching him, but although he peered into every shadow,
he saw nothing but turned earth and growing things. When he
knocked, Nevyn opened the door and ushered him in with a bow.
“Good morrow, my lord. To what do I owe this
honor?”
“Oh, I just wanted a word with you.”
Nevyn smiled, waiting pleasantly. Pertyc glanced around the
room, filled with the rich mingled smell of a hundred herbs and
roots and barks, bitter and sweet, dry and sharp all diffusing
together in the sunlit air.
“I was reading my ancestor’s book last night, you
see, and I came across a most curious passage about the dweomer. It
was in the book of Qualities. Have you read that, by any
chance?”
“I have, but it was a very long time ago.”
“No doubt. Let me refresh your memory about this one bit,
then. The most noble prince was discussing whether dweomer exists,
you see, and he remarks that he once knew a dweomerman.”
“Oh, did he now? I think I begin to recall the
passage.”
“No doubt. It would be a great honor to have one’s
name recorded in a book for me to remember down the long
years.”
Nevyn considered him with a small frown, then suddenly
laughed.
“His lordship has quick wits. He’s most worthy of
his noble ancestor’s name.”
“By the hells! You mean I’ve guessed
right?”
“About what? You don’t really think that I’m
the self-same man that knew Prince Mael, do you?”
“Er, well, it did seem to fantastical to be
true . . . ”
“Indeed.” The old man considered for a moment, as if
he were debating something in his mind. “Here, if you promise
to keep this to yourself, I’ll tell you the truth. The name
of Nevyn is a kind of honorary title, passed down from master to
apprentice just like a lord passes his title to a son. When one
Nevyn grows old and dies, then a new one appears.”
Pertyc felt embarassed as a page caught in some lapse of
etiquette. Nevyn grinned at him in an oddly sly way, as if the old
man had just done something that pleased him mightily.
“And did you come to ask me that, my lord, and naught
more? His lordship seems troubled. Is it all because of the
dweomer?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, good sir. I have so much
on my mind these days.”
“No doubt. So must every lord in Eldidd.”
If it weren’t for Danry, Pertyc would have told the entire
tale to the dweomerman there and then, but his oath-sworn friend
was up to his neck in treason.
“Eldidd is always full of troubles.” Pertyc chose
his words carefully. “Few of them come to much.”
“Those few that do can be deadly.”
“True-spoken. That’s why our Mael listed prudence
among his noble qualities. It pays to be ready for trouble, even if
none comes.”
Nevyn’s eyes seemed to cut through to his soul, as sharp
as a sword thrust.
“I’m well aware that you and your son have a tenuous
claim to the Eldidd throne.”
“I have no claim at all in any true or holy sense of that
word.”
“Qualities such as the true and the holy are held in
general disrespect in most parts of the kingdowm. That’s a
quote from your ancestor’s book. It seems he was farsighted
enough to deserve the name of Seer.”
Pertyc rose, pacing restlessly over to the hearth.
“Let me guess what you’re too honorable to tell
me,” Nevyn went on. “Every friend you have is in this
rebellious muck too deep to get out again, and so you’re
being torn to pieces between your loyalty to them and your loyalty
to the king.”
“How—ah, ye gods, dweomer indeed!”
“Naught of the sort. Mere logic. Let me ask only one
thing: are you going to fight for the king or try and stay
neutral?”
“Neutral, if only the gods will allow. And let me ask you
the same. Are you a king’s man or neutral in this
scrap?”
“I belong to the people of this kingdom, lad, not king nor
lord nor usurper. And that’s all the answer you’re
going to get from me.”
The great guildhall of Aberwyn was hot. Every one of the long
rank of windows help diamond-paned glass—an enormous luxury
but a stifling one as the sun poured through onto the packed crowd.
A hundred men sat solemnly on long benches down on the blue and
gray slate floor, while up on the dais stood a row of carved chairs
filled with the guild officers, all in their ceremonial cloaks of
bright-colored checked wool. At one end of this impressive line,
the guild’s chief scribe snored shamelessly. In his seat down
on the floor, Ganedd wished that he could do the same, but every
time he nodded off, his father elbowed him in the ribs. All
afternoon, the debate raged over the matter of loaning two thousand
silver pieces to the gwerbret of Aberwyn. Although no one ever
mentioned why the gwerbret wanted the coin, the knowledge was as
cloying as the heat, making it hard to think clearly. A successful
rebellion meant freedom from Deverry taxes, freedom from the
Deverry guilds, and a certain heady rush of pride in independence.
Failure, of course, meant losing the money down to the last copper.
After the formal meeting droned to a halt, close to sunset, the
debate continued in private inn chambers or over dinner tables in
wealthy merchant houses. There in whispers among a few men at a
time, rose the simple question: could the gwerbrets win or not?
“And even if they do win, what’s next?” Wersyn
said. “There’s two great gwerbrets in Eldidd and only
one throne. Ye gods, it gives me a headache, thinking about them
turning on each other once the first war is over.”
“Well, we’ve got to start thinking about this kind
of thing, Da,” Ganedd said. “We’re going to vote
on the loan tomorrow.”
“True enough, but you’d better vote the way I tell
you when the time comes.”
They were in their luxurious inn chamber, waiting for two of
Wersyn’s old friends to join him for another private
discussion. Among flagons of Bardek wine a small cold supper was
laid out on a linen-covered table.
“If I’m voting the way you say, can I go down to the
tavern room tonight? No need for me to listen, is there, if
you’re going to make my mind up for me.”
“You nasty little cub.” Wersyn said it without real
rancor. “Just don’t come in staggering drunk until my
guests have gone. Ye gods! Sometimes I wonder where I got a son
like you. Wanting to go to sea! Drinking! Humph!”
Since they were staying in an expensive inn, the tavern room was
big and clean, with glass lanterns hanging every few feet along the
whitewashed walls, but all the serving girls were respectable and
watched over by a paternal tavernman who seemed determined to keep
them that way. Down in one corner, out of the way by the kitchen
door, Ganedd found Maer, drinking ale alone and doing his best to
behave himself.
“Aren’t you going to discuss grave affairs of state
with your da and his friends?”
“I’m not. They won’t listen to me, and it
drives me half mad. This scheme is daft, Maer. They keep talking
about how many riders the rebels can raise when what they need to
be talking about is ships.”
“Huh? What have ships got to do with it?”
“Not you, too! Look, as the king marches south from Dun
Deverry to Cerrmor, what does he find along the way? Loyal vassals,
that’s what, with nice fat demesnes that support big
warbands. Then when he gets to Cerrmor, what does he
find?”
“Ships.” Maer sat up straight and began thinking.
“Ships to deliver all those men to Abernaudd and Aberwyn in
about half the time they could ride.”
“Right. And the rebels don’t have a third of the
galleys they need to stop him.”
“Hum.” Maer thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip.
“Too bad you can’t go for a marine officer, Ganno, on
one of his grace’s galleys. You’ve got the mind for
it.”
“That’s a splendid idea, you know, and one I never
thought of. I wonder . . . but we won’t be in Aberwyn much
longer this trip, so I can’t go ask his grace. What do you
say we go see what kind of lasses work in the taverns closer to the
docks? I nipped some of Da’s coin from his pouch when he
wasn’t looking.”
“Did you now? Well, if you don’t mind me helping you
spend it, I’m on.”
It was well into the third watch when Ganedd came stumbling up
the stairs of the inn. As he let himself into their chambers, he
tripped, falling onto his hands and knees with a curse and a
clatter. Just as he was picking himself up, Wersyn came out of the
bedchamber with a candle lantern in his hand. Ganedd grabbed the
edge of the table to steady himself and forced out a weak
smile.
“I can smell the mead from way over here,” Wersyn
announced. “And a good bit more than mead, I must say. Cheap
perfume, is it?”
“Well, I waited until your guests left, didn’t
I?”
“I suppose I should be thanking the gods for giving you
one little crumb of good sense. Look at you—like a prize
bull, properly bred and twice as sweaty! And you’re drunk,
and you stole from me, and—” He sputtered briefly, then
took a deep breath. “Ye gods, Ganno! Do you know how late it
is? You’ve been out carousing most of the night. And now
you’re going to go staggering into the guildhall, I suppose,
with your eyes as red as a weasel’s, and everyone will know
what you were up to. By the Lord of Hell’s black ass, what
will people think of me for having a son like you?”
Wersyn strode back into his bedchamber. When he slammed the door
behind him and his candle, the reception chamber went dark.
Stumbling over furniture, Ganedd found his way to his own
bedchamber, fell down on the bed fully dressed, and passed out.
But he woke in the morning in a sullen temper. During breakfast,
which he could barely eat, he had difficulty looking at his father,
who prattled on about lower taxes as if the rebellion were already
won.
“Now remember what I said about the vote this
morning,” Wersyn announced finally.
Ganedd tried to swallow a spoonful of barley porridge, then
shoved the bowl away as a bad job.
“The loan’s going through no matter what we think
about it,” Wersyn continued. “So when it comes to the
vote, we’re giving our approval too.”
Ganedd started to argue, then got up and rushed out of the room.
He never made it to the privy, but no one cared when he heaved the
contents of his stomach onto the dungheap out back of the inn.
The vote on the loan was the last item on the guild’s
agenda, rather as though the master were putting it off as long as
possible in the vain hope that some omen might make the decision
easier. Ganedd sat sullenly on his bench—way at the back
since he’d come in late—and nursed the mead-sick throb
in his temples and the queasiness in his stomach. All at once, a
bustle on the dais caught his attention. The guildmaster rose,
tossed his cloak back from one shoulder, and blew on his silver
horn to bring the meeting to order, the long sweet note echoing
through the abruptly silent hall. Sunlight hung heavy on the sea of
color that was the finery of the guild: gold-shot banners, checks
and stripes of all colors on cloak and brigga, rainbow-hued
tapestries on the painted walls.
“We come now to the matter of the loan of two thousand
silver pieces to his grace, Gwerbret Aberwyn,” the
guildmaster called out. “Is there any more debate to be laid
before the convocation?”
Silence, stillness—no one spoke or moved. The guildmaster
raised his horn to his lips and blew again.
“Very well. Those in favor, to the right. Those against,
to the left. Scribe, stand ready to count and record the
numbers.”
Slowly, a few at a time, the men rose, starting in the front of
the hall, and walked to the right, so unanimously that the motion
was as smooth as uncoiling a rope. Ganedd watched as first his
father took a place at the right, then his father’s close
friends trotted meekly after. His row, the last, began to get up.
Ganedd followed them free of the benches, then abruptly turned and
marched to the left side of the hall. He’d be cursed and
frozen in the third hell before he’d back a doomed scheme
like this one. It was also the sweetest pleasure he’d ever
tasted to see his father’s face literally turn purple with
rage. Ganedd crossed his arms over his chest and grinned as the
entire guild gasped and stared; whiskered faces, lean faces, shrewd
eyes, watery eyes, but all of them outraged.
“Done, then,” the guildmaster called. “Scribe,
what is your count?”
“Ninety and seven in favor, two members missing from the
count, and one against.”
“There’s one man in Eldidd who’ll hold for the
true king,” Ganedd yelled. “You stinking
cowards!”
At the shriek that rose he felt as if he’d heaved a rock
into the middle of a flock of geese. The men swirled around,
nudging each other, whispering and cursing, then shouting and
cursing, louder and louder as they milled through the hall. Ganedd
had said it out, the one unsayable truth: they were voting treason.
Ganedd started laughing as the guild broke, hurrying away,
muttering among themselves as they all tried to pretend
they’d never heard a thing. Wersyn came running and slapped
him so hard across the face that Ganedd staggered back against the
wall.
“You foul little cub!” Wersyn howled. “How
could you? Ye gods, I’ll kill you for this!”
“Go ahead. I won’t be the last man to die in the
war.”
Cursing a steady stream, Wersyn grabbed his arm and dragged him
across the hall. Ganedd followed meekly, laughing under his breath.
He’d never had such a splendid time in his life. But his
pleasure ended once they were back in their inn chambers. Shaking
in fury, Wersyn shoved Ganedd into a chair and began pacing around,
his hands clenched, his eyes snapping.
“You rotten little bastard! This tears it once and for
all! I’m sending you straight back home. I can’t hold
my head up if I’ve got a son like this at my side. How could
you? Why? Ganno, for the love of every god—why?”
“Just to see what would happen, mostly. You all looked so
wretchedly pleased with yourselves.”
Wersyn strode over and slapped him again.
“You’re taking Maer and getting out of here today.
Get your things and go! I want you out of my sight.”
All the time Ganedd packed, all the time he was saddling his
horse, Wersyn went on yelling at him, calling him a fool and a
demon-spawned ungrateful whelp, a worthless dolt and a turd dropped
by a spavined mare. The entire innyard and Maer as well listened to
this lecture with visible curiosity. Once Wersyn had stormed
inside, and they were leading their horses out into the town, the
silver dagger could stand it no more.
“Ye gods, is he that blasted furious over one
whore?”
“Last night’s got naught to do with it. Remember the
gwerbret’s loan? It came to a vote today, and I was the only
man who voted against it.”
Maer stared at him with a sudden flattering respect.
“Here, that took guts.”
“Did it? Maybe so.”
At the west-running road the city gates were standing open. Just
outside they found another merchant, an old family friend named
Gurcyn, standing by his horse and yelling orders as his muleteers
organized his caravan. Ganedd threw his reins to Maer and strode
over to speak with him, just as a last defiance.
“Good morrow,” Ganedd said. “Leaving so
soon?”
Gurcyn looked him over, not anywhere near as coldly as Ganedd
was expecting, but he said nothing.
“Go on,” Ganedd went on. “Tell me what you
think of me. I’m giving you the chance, rebel.”
“All I think is that you’re a bit lacking in wits,
though long on nerve. This thing’s going to be remembered.
Here, did your father send you home in disgrace?”
“Just that. And what about you? I’m surprised
you’re not staying to celebrate your treason with the rest of
them.”
“Oh, hold your tongue! Roosters who strut too much end up
in the soup kettle. As for me, my wife’s been ill, and
I’ve got to get home straightaway. Good morrow, lad, and by
the gods of our people, watch what you say, will you?”
As Gurcyn walked away, shouting to his men, Maer led their
horses over.
“Who was that? One of the guild?”
“Just so. Why?”
“I’ve seen him before.” Maer’s eyes
narrowed in hard thought. “Probably in some tavern, but you
know, I think it was up in Dun Deverry, right after my lord kicked
me out of Blaeddbyr, like, and I was riding west.”
“Maybe it was. A good guildsman rides wherever the coin
calls, and Dun Deverry calls in a lot of coin. Come on, let’s
get on the cursed road.”
Although Ganedd was usually good company, on the ride back home
he fell into long cold silences and refused to be drawn out, not
even by jests, thus leaving Maer with a lot of time to
think—an unfamiliar activity and one that he preferred to
avoid whenever possible. Now, however, he had a number of strange
things to think about, starting with old Nevyn the herbman. When
they’d first met back in Aberwyn, Maer had barely noticed
him, but as they’d ridden west together, Maer had found
himself oppressed by the growing feeling that he’d known the
old man before, an acquaintance that was logically impossible
because Nevyn insisted that he’d never been anywhere near
Blaeddbyr in all the years since Maer was born, and while Maer was
travelling as a silver dagger, the old man was over in Bardek.
Added to that, of course, Lord Pertyc thought that Nevyn was a
sorcerer, which meant that Lord Pertyc believed that the dweomer
craft was a real thing. Every now and then Maer would bring this
idea to mind, like taking a strange coin out of a pouch, and turn
it over and over between mental fingers, wondering at it. Since
Maer had been raised to follow the noble-born without doubt or
question, he supposed that if Pertyc said the old man was a
sorcerer, then sorcerer he was. He supposed. He held the thought up
to the mental light one more time, shook his head, and put it away
again. Maybe sometime soon it would make sense. Maybe.
Finally there was the matter of the Wildfolk. Ever since young
Adraegyn and the old man had discussed them that one afternoon,
Maer had, again quite against his will, found himself thinking that
perhaps they did indeed exist and that just maybe one of them was
following him around, just as the lad said. His evidence for this
was thin, and he did his best to ignore it. It was just that every
now and then he felt something touch his arm or his hair; even more
rarely, when he was riding, he felt tiny arms clasp his waist as if
someone sat behind him on the saddle. Occassionally he saw a bush
or branch move as if something stood within or upon it, or one of
Lord Pertyc’s dogs would suddenly leap up and bark for no
reason, or one of the horses would suddenly stamp and swing its
head around to look at something that Maer couldn’t see.
Once, when he was drinking a foaming tankard of ale and all alone
at table, a tiny breath had blown the foam right into his face as
he went for a sip. It was beginning to make his flesh creep, all of
it. He would have wished that they’d stop and leave him
alone, except wishing meant admitting that someone existed to do
the stopping. He wasn’t ready to admit that, not in the
least.
Yet he kept gathering new evidence in spite of his attempts to
ignore it. As their horses ambled the last few miles to Cannobaen,
Ganedd’s silence grew as black and cold as a winter storm.
Maer amused himself by looking at the now familiar scenery: off to
his left the clifftop meadows and the sparkling sea, the rich
fields to his right, striped here and there with stands of trees,
all second growth planted for firewood. Scarlet and gold, the
leaves already hung thin and bare along the branches, especially on
the trees planted next to the road that received the full force of
the sea winds. It was in one of these that Maer saw, clear as
clear, a little face peering at him. It was a pretty face,
obviously female, with long dark blue hair and big blue eyes,
staring at him wistfully. When Maer stared back, she suddenly
smiled, revealing a mouthful of long pointed teeth. Maer yelped
aloud.
“What?” Ganedd roused himself. “What’s
so wrong?”
“Don’t you see it? Look! Right there, on that low
branch.”
“See what? Maer, are you going daft? There’s naught
there.”
“It’s a windless day and the leaves are
shaking.”
“Then some bird flew away or somewhat. What are you doing?
Falling asleep in the saddle and dreaming?”
“Well, I guess so. Sorry.”
With a melancholy sigh Ganedd went back to his brooding. Maer
cursed himself for a fool and took up the job of convincing himself
that he’d seen nothing. He’d just about succeeded when
he noticed Nevyn, some hundred yards away, digging a few roots out
on the clifftops. As they passed, the herbman straightened up and
waved, just pleasantly, but his simple presence suddenly struck
Maer like an omen. It was all he could do to wave back.
It was the next market day that Glaenara sold the last of the
cheeses. She was just packing up to go home when she saw a rider
leading his horse through the crowded square: Maer, his silver
dagger bright at his belt. She wasn’t sure if she hoped
he’d stop or not, but he took the matter out of her hands by
doing just that.
“And is your bilge-mouthed brother in town
today?”
“He’s not. What’s it to you?”
“Well, I brought you somewhat of a present from Aberwyn,
and I didn’t want him to see me give it to you.” Maer
took a packet wrapped in a bit of white linen out of his shirt and
handed it over.
“My thanks, Maer. Truly.”
He merely smiled, watching as she unwrapped the cloth and found
a small bronze mirror, a circle that fit neatly into the palm of
her hand. On one side was a bit of silvered glass, held in place by
a band of knotwork wires; on the other was a fancy design of laced
spirals.
“I wanted to get the silver one,” Maer said,
sighing, “but coins flow from silver daggers like chickens
run from foxes.”
“It doesn’t matter. This is lovely. Ye gods,
I’ve never had a mirror before. My thanks. Truly, my
thanks.”
Glaenara held the mirror up. By angling her head, she could see
her reflection a bit at a time, and a lot more clearly than in the
reflection from a bucket of water. Much to her horror, there was a
bit of dirt stuck on her cheek. Hastily she wiped it off.
“A pretty lass like you should have a mirror of her
own.”
“Do you truly think I’m pretty? I
don’t.”
He looked so shocked that she was embarassed.
“Well,” Maer said thoughtfully. “Truly, pretty
isn’t the right word, is it? As handsome as a wild horse or a
trout leaping from a stream, not pretty like a rose in some
lord’s garden.”
“Then my thanks.” Glaenara busied herself with
wrapping the mirror up in the cloth again, but she felt herself
blush with pleasure. “And what errand are you
running?”
“Well, our Badger wanted a word with Ganedd the
merchant’s son. Cursed if I know why, but I’m taking
the lad a letter. I can’t read, or I would have sneaked a
look. It’s not sealed.”
“It would have been dishonorable.”
“Of course, but ye gods, I’ve always been a curious
sort of man. Ah, well, it’s beyond me anyway, all this
wretched writing. Will you come into town next week?”
“I might, I might not. It depends on the
chickens.”
“Then I’ll pray to the Goddess to let them lay more
eggs than your family can possibly eat and that my lord will let me
come down to town.”
After Maer left, Glaenara counted up her coin. She had just
enough to buy a length of cloth to make herself that new dress that
Nalyn had been nagging her about. If she worked hard, sitting
outside every evening to get the last of the sunlight, she could
have the dress finished by next market day.
Ganedd sat uneasily on the edge of his chair and held his goblet
of mead in nervous fingers. The lad was wearing a pair of
blue-and-gray-checked brigga and a shirt heavily worked in
flowers—his best clothes, Pertyc assumed, for his visit to
the noble-born.
“No doubt you’re wondering why I asked you up here.
I’ll come straight to the point. My silver dagger told me
that you voted against the rebellion in Aberwyn. I’m holding
for the king myself. It gladdens my heart that you do the
same.”
“My thanks, my lord, but I don’t know what the two
of us can do about it.”
“Naught more than what we can, truly, but we’ve got
to try. I want to ask you to take my service. There’s going
to be a war in the spring, lad, and I’ve no doubt that our
rebels will want me dead before they march against the
king.”
“I’m no warrior, my lord, but if you want me to join
your men, I’ll do my best to fight.”
Pertyc was both surprised and ashamed of himself. He’d
been dismissing this young man as nothing but a merchant, little
more than a farmer and most likely a coward to boot.
“Well, actually,” Pertyc said, “I was hoping
you’d run an errand for me. You deal with the Westfolk all
the time, don’t you? You must know where to find them and all
that.”
“I do, my lord.” Ganedd looked puzzled; then he
grinned. “Longbows.”
“Just that. If I load you up with every bit of iron goods
and fancy cloth and jewelry and so on that I can scrape together,
do you think you could get me enough bows for the warband? I
wouldn’t take a few extra archers amiss, either, if you can
recruit some.”
“Well, I’ll try my lord, but I don’t think the
Westfolk are interested in hiring out as mercenaries. The bows I
can likely get, though.”
“Well, that’ll be somewhat to the good.”
Pertyc hesitated, struck by a sudden thought and then surprise,
that he’d never had the thought until this moment. “You
know, I wonder just how proud a man I am.”
“My lord?”
It took Pertyc a long time to answer, and in the end, the only
thing that brought him round was his love for his children. While
no rebel lord would ever have knowingly killed his daughter,
terrible things happened in sieges, especially if they ended in
fire. If Pertyc lost the battle but the rebels lost the war,
Adraegyn was quite simply doomed. The king’s men would
smother the boy, most like.
“Tell me somewhat, Ganno. Do you think you could find my
wife?”
Ganedd stared openmouthed.
“Well, she won’t lift a finger for my sake,”
Pertyc said, “but for Becyla and Adraegyn she just might
raise a small army.”
“I’ll do my best, my lord, but the elven gods only
know where she might be, and the Westlands are an awfully big
place. The sooner I leave, the better. Can you give me a guard and
some packhorses? The less of Da’s stock that I use, the fewer
questions Mam will ask.”
All that afternoon, while Ganedd gathered supplies, Pertyc
agonized over the letter to his wife. Finally, when he was running
out of time, he decided to make it as simple and as short as he
could:
“Our children are in mortal danger from a war. My
messenger will explain. For their sakes I’m begging your aid.
I’ll humble myself in any way you want if you’ll just
come and take them to safety.”
He rolled it up, sealed it into a silver message tube, then
without thinking kissed the seal, as if the wax could pass the
message along.
Just at sunset, Ganedd and his impromptu caravan assembled out
in the ward, a straggling line of packhorses and mules along with
two of Pertyc’s most reliable riders for guards and the
undergroom for a servant. Pertyc handed Ganedd what coin he could
spare and the message tube, then walked to the gates to wave his
only true hope on its way until the caravan disappeared into a
welter of dust and sea haze. As he turned to go inside, the ward
flared with yellow light. Up on the tower the lightkeeper had fired
the beacon.
In every warband, Maer reflected sadly, there was always an
utterly humorless man like Crindd. If you said it looked like fair
weather, Crindd saw rain coming; if you said a meal looked good,
Crindd remarked that the cook had filth under her fingernails; if
you liked the look of a horse, Crindd insisted that he had the legs
to come up lame. On a bad day, Crindd’s little black shadow
of gloom could make even Garoic the captain groan under his
breath.
“Ye gods,” Maer said to Cadmyn one morning,
“I’d drown the man except it would give him too much
pleasure to have something go wrong.”
Cadmyn, an easygoing blond who was Maer’s only real friend
in the warband, nodded with a faint look of disgust.
“True-spoken. We all used to mock him, but it wasn’t
truly satisfying. He never seemed to notice, you see.”
“Really? Well, you just leave this to me.”
That afternoon Maer asked for and received Lord Pertyc’s
permission to leave the dun, then rode over to Glaenara’s
farm. Much to his annoyance, she was gone, and her brother-in-law
refused to tell him where.
“Just what do you want anyway, silver dagger?” Nalyn
snarled.
“To buy a pint of dried beans or peas from you and naught
more. I’ll give you a copper.”
Nalyn considered, greed fighting with dislike.
“Oh, I’ll sell you a handful of pulse gladly
enough,” he said at last. “But I don’t want you
hanging around Glae.”
After dinner that night, two of the other lads kept Crindd busy
in the great hall while Maer and Cadmyn sneaked out to the
barracks. They stripped Crindd’s bunk of blanket and sheet,
and while Cadmyn kept watch at the door, Maer sprinkled the dried
peas over the mattress before he made the bed up again. When the
time came, everyone in the warband went to bed full of
anticipation. In the dark they could hear Crindd squirming this way
and that. At last he got up, and they heard the sound of him trying
to brush the sheet clean with his hands. When he got back into bed,
the squirming picked up again. Finally one of the men broke and
sniggered; the entire warband joined in. Crindd sat up with a howl
of rage.
“And just why are you bastards all laughing?”
Silence fell, except for the sound of Crindd getting up and
messing with something at the hearth. At great length, he struck a
spark into tinder and lit a candle. Everyone else sat up and
arranged innocent smiles while he stalked over to examine his
bunk.
“There’s something in my bed!”
“Fleas?” Maer said. “Lice? Bedbugs?”
“Oh, hold your pus-boil tongue, you whoreson
bastard!”
“Nasty, isn’t he?” Cadmyn remarked.
Crindd shoved the candle into a wax-crusted holder and began
hauling the sheet off.
“Dried peas!”
“And how did they get in there?” Cadmyn said.
“Must be the Wildfolk,” Maer answered.
The moment Maer said the name he regretted it, because they came
at the sound, or so he assumed, not knowing that the Wildfolk love
a good prank, the meaner the better. Although it was hard to be
certain in the flickering candlelight, Maer thought he saw them as
little shapes of shadow, thicker than smoke but just as unstable.
When Crindd began gathering the pulse and throwing it impartially
at every man within range, the Wildfolk helped the warband catch
what they could and throw it back. Maer, however, sat stone-still
on his bunk and merely stared, wondering if Nevyn could make a
potion that would bring him back to normal. At last Garoic rushed
in, wearing a night-shirt over his brigga and swearing at the lot
of them to restore order.
The prank brought Maer so much glory that of course he
wasn’t going to stop there, Wildfolk or no Wildfolk. On the
morrow he filled a bucket with water, threw in a handful of mucky
straw from the stable, and balanced it on top of the half-open door
of the tack room. When young Wertyc maneuvered Crindd into going to
fetch something from this room, Crindd flung the door open and
dumped the foul and by then chilly water all over himself. For the
rest of the day, he strode around in a humor as foul as his bath,
and his mood wasn’t sweetened any when Maer barred the privy
door from the outside and trapped him in it. He must have banged
and yelled for a good hour before Adraegyn heard him and let him
out. Crindd grabbed a rake from the nearby dungheap and came
charging for the barracks; he might well have killed someone if
Garoic hadn’t calmed him down.
Although Crindd had no idea who was persecuting him, Garoic
wasn’t so dense. That very evening, he caught Maer as he was
leaving the great hall and hauled him off for a private word.
“Listen, silver dagger, a jest’s a jest, and I have
to admit that I’ve had some good laughs out of all this, but
enough’s enough.”
“But, Captain, sir, what makes you think I’ve got
anything to do with it?”
“My eyes and ears. A warning, silver dagger: the long road
might be calling you soon.”
Since being kicked out of the warband would mean disaster, what
with winter coming on, Maer swore that the pranks would end.
Unfortunately, Cadmyn came up with an idea that was too good to
resist, and he also offered to take the blame for it if worse came
to worst. Crindd had a pair of new riding boots, worked in two
colors of leather, which had cost him all his winnings from a
particularly lucky dice game. Maer and Cadmyn went down to a pond
not far from the dun and found the two last frogs who hadn’t
dug themselves under the mud for the winter. One fit neatly into
each boot. Although Maer and Cadmyn were outside when Crindd went
to put on his new boots, they could hear his shriek quite clearly.
They were laughing themselves sick when Crindd found them.
“You foul bastards! I can see the mud on your
brigga.”
From inside his shirt the frogs croaked.
“You’ve got a pair of pets, have you?” Maer
said. “Well, flowers to the fair, and frogs to the
warty.”
Crindd hauled back and hit him in the face. With a yell, Maer
swung back, but he was so dizzy that he missed. He could hear
Cadmyn shouting, and men running; just as Crindd hit him again,
hands grabbed them both and hauled them apart. Although
Maer’s right eye was already swelling and dripping, he could
see Lord Pertyc and Garoic strolling over, both of them
scowling.
“It was all my fault!” Cadmyn squeaked.
“Crindd hit the wrong man!”
“He would,” Garoic said.
“What is all this?” Pertyc snapped.
“Frogs, my lord! They put frogs in my boots. This very
morning.” Crindd reached inside his shirt and hauled out the
terrified creatures. “Here’s the evidence. And they put
dried peas under my sheet and doused me with rotten water
and . . . ”
“Enough!” Pertyc took the frogs, contemplated them
briefly, then handed them to a grinning Adraegyn. “Go put
these back in the pond, will you? Right now, please. Now, Maer,
Cadmyn. Why did you two commit this list of heinous
crimes?”
Cadmyn groped for words and gave it up as a bad job.
“Well, my lord,” Maer said. “Just for the jest
of the thing. You see, Crindd makes a splendid victim.”
Crindd squealed in outrage, but his lordship laughed.
“I do see, indeed. Crindd, it looks to me like
you’ve already gotten your revenge on Maer’s right eye.
Let this be a lesson to you: never be a splendid victim again. It
gives people ideas.”
“But, my lord—”
“Just think about it, will you?” Pertyc turned to
the two malefactors. “Maer, you’d better go down to the
village and have the herbman look at that eye. I don’t like
the way it’s swelling.”
When Maer rode up to the herbman’s cottage, he received a
surprise bigger than the one the frogs had given Crindd. Out in the
front garden Glaenara was spreading laundry to dry. Pretty in a new
dress of woad-blue wool, she was singing to herself, her raven-dark
hair gleaming in the sunlight. The sight of her made him feel warm
all over.
“And what are you doing here?” he called out as he
dismounted.
“Keeping up Nevyn’s house for him.” She
strolled over to open the gate. “Oh, Maer! Your
eye!”
“I just got into a little scrap with one of the
lads.”
He found Nevyn sitting at a table inside and sorting out various
herbs and dried barks. The old man got up and caught Maer by the
chin, tipping his head back for a look as if the silver dagger were
a child, and his fingers were surprisingly strong.
“Well, that’s a nasty mess, isn’t it?
I’ll make you up a poultice. Sit down, Maer.”
When Maer sat, a pair of big-bellied gnomes appeared on the
table and considered him. He scowled right back. Nevyn went to the
hearth, where an iron pot hung from a tripod over a small
arrangement of logs. When the old man waved his hand at the wood,
it burst into flame. Maer felt so sick that he slumped against the
table behind him like a lady feeling a faint coming on. Nevyn
picked up a handful of herbs from the table and stirred them into
the water shimmering in the pot.
“I’m assuming someone’s fist gave you that
black eye.”
“It was, sir. Not long ago.”
“Ah.” Nevyn turned from his stirring and fixed Maer
with one of his needle-sharp stares. “Glaenara’s a
nice, decent lass, Maer. I would absolutely hate to see her
dishonored and deserted.”
“Would you, sir?” Maer paused to lick dry lips with
a nervous tongue. “Er, ah, well, I imagine you’re not a
pleasant man to face when you’re angry about
somewhat.”
“Not in the least, Maer lad, not in the least.”
When he waved his hand again the fire went out cold. So Lord
Pertyc was right about the old man, Maer thought. I wonder if
sorcerers can really turn men into frogs? I’ve no desire to
find out the hard way, that’s certain.
Yet, as he was leaving, so was Glae, and he decided that it
would be dishonorable to let her walk when he was riding her way.
He lifted her to his saddle, then mounted behind, slipping his arms
around her waist and taking the reins.
“What were you fighting over?” Glaenara said.
“Some lass, I’ll bet.”
“Naught of the sort! It’s a long story.”
During the ride home, he told her about his persecution of
Crindd, and she laughed as much as one of the lads in the warband.
He decided that one of the things he liked best about her was the
way she enjoyed a good laugh; so few lasses seemed to appreciate
his sense of humor. When they got about half a mile from the farm,
she insisted that he let her walk the rest of the way to keep her
brother-in-law from seeing them together. As he was lifting her
down, he tried kissing her. Although she laughed and shoved him
away, she let him steal a second kiss. Just as his lips touched
hers, he felt a sharp pain, like the pinch of bony fingers, in the
back of his left thigh. He yelped and jumped.
“What?” Glae snapped. “What happened to
you?”
“Er, a muscle cramp, I guess.” He rubbed the spot
gingerly—it still hurt, all right. “I’m
sorry.”
“Humph, well, if that’s the way you’re going
to be!”
But she was smiling as she turned away and ran off, heading for
the farm. Although Maer waved goodbye, he was completely
distracted. For a few moments he could see in a tangle of bushes
nearby a small blue creature, as solid and distinct as she could
be, with long blue hair and a face like a beautiful child, scowling
at him in jealous rage. Suddenly she disappeared, leaving him
wondering if he were going mad.
Yet he saw her again, the very next time he rode down into town
in hopes of meeting Glaenara. Sure enough, he found Glae selling
eggs and turnips in the market, but just as he was striking up a
conversation, the blue-haired creature appeared, standing directly
behind Glae and snarling like a jealous lover. Maer completely
forgot himself.
“Now don’t you hurt her!”
“What?” Glae said. “Hurt who? The
chicken?”
“My apologies. I wasn’t talking to you—I
mean—oh, by the hells!”
Glae swiveled around to look behind her. Although Little
Blue-hair, as he started calling her, stamped a foot and shook a
small fist in Glae’s direction, it was obvious that the human
lass saw nothing.
“Maer, you are daft! That’s the oldest
prank in the world, making someone look and find naught there. And
I must be a lackwit to fall for it.”
“Ah, er, sorry. Truly, I shouldn’t have . . . uh,
well. Here, I’ve got to go, uh, er, run an errand, but
I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me.”
Leading his horse, Maer hurried off through the sparse crowd in
the direction of the blacksmith’s shop, but he turned off
before he got there and found a private spot behind the inn. Little
Blue-hair appeared, sitting on his saddle and smirking at him.
Although he felt more daft than ever, he waggled a finger at
her.
“Now listen, you, you can’t go around pinching
people and suchlike.”
She held up one hand and made a pinching motion with her thumb
and forefinger.
“Like that, truly. Don’t do it again, especially not
to other people.”
She stuck her tongue out at him.
“If you don’t behave,
I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll tell Nevyn the
dweomerman on you.”
He made the threat only because he could think of none
better—after all, Nevyn terrified him, didn’t
he?—but it had all the force he could possibly have wanted.
She leapt to her feet, opened her mouth in a soundless shriek,
flung both hands in the air, and disappeared. For a moment Maer
felt almost guilty; then he decided that she’d brought it on
herself and hurried back to take up his courting in peace. For some
weeks afterward, all the Wildfolk stayed far away from him, and he
was glad of it.
“Now listen, Glae,” Nalyn snapped. “You know
as well as I do that Doclyn’s a decent young man and a good
hard worker. His father’s asking me for the smallest possible
dowry that can stand up in a lord’s court. We won’t do
better than that. Why won’t you marry him?”
Glaenara looked up from the bowl of dried beans she was sorting
and simpered at him.
“He doesn’t please me.”
“Oh, my humble, humble apologies, my fine lady! It’s
not looks that matter in a man.”
“Obviously, or Lida never would have married
you.”
“Glae!” Myna spoke sharply from her chair by the
fire. “Please don’t start things up again.”
Glae banged the bowl onto the table and stalked outside,
sweeping her skirts around her as she hurried across the muddy
farmyard. The bitter truth, she supposed, was that unless she
married someone, she’d go on living here, under her
brother-in-law’s thumb, working hard all her life, never
having anything resembling her own house—not that she’d
ever have the lovely things and leisure that Braedda would. When
she reached the cow barn, she paused, looking up at the sky, where
the moon sailed free of a wisp of icy cloud. She shivered, wishing
she’d brought her shawl. Over by the chicken coop something
moved: a man shape, detaching itself from a shadow: Maer. She
hurried over to him and whispered when she spoke.
“What are you doing here?”
“Trying to figure out how to get a word with you. Are you
cold? You can have my cloak. Here.”
Bundled in the heavy wool, she walked with him a little ways
back into the woods, where he’d left his horse. The moon
streamed through the bare-branched trees and made little patterns
on the ground.
“Suppose I come out here tomorrow night,” Maer said.
“Would you meet me?”
“It’s going to rain tomorrow night. Samwna’s
joints ached all day today, and that’s always a sure sign of
rain coming.”
“Well, then, I’ll come out here anyway and keep a
hopeless vigil in the pouring rain and get a horrible fever and
maybe die, and it’ll all be for love of you.”
“Oh, don’t talk daft.”
“I mean it, Glae, truly. I’m half out of my mind for
love of you.”
“Oh, don’t lie to me!”
In the moonlight she could just make out the shock on his face.
Half afraid she’d cry, she sat down on the ground under a
tree. In a moment he joined her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re
right. But I’ll say this, and it’s not fancy words but
the truth. I don’t think there’s another lass like you
in all Deverry and Eldidd.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“A little of both. How’s this? I’m not mad for
love of you, but I blasted well like you a whole lot, and every now
and then, I think maybe I do love you.”
“That I can believe, and my thanks. I like you
too.”
Somewhat hesitantly, Maer slipped one arm around her shoulders
and kissed her. She let him steal another, found herself thinking
of the future, and kissed Maer instead to drive the thought away.
When he started caressing her, she wrapped her arms tight around
him in the spirit of someone gulping a particularly bitter healing
decoction and let him lie her down in the soft leaves.
The medicine worked. Having a man of her own made the rest of
her life easier to take, as did the coppers Nevyn gave her for
tending his cottage. Once she set her mind to ignoring
Nalyn’s insults and keeping peace between them, they got
through whole days without squabbling, and Mam and Lidyan began to
relax into a pleased relief. When the explosion came, then, it was
twice as bad as it might have been. One evening, just at sunset,
Glaenara was chasing the chickens back into the coop for the night
when Nalyn came walking out of the house. She could tell something
was wrong just from the look in his eyes.
“And what’s eating you?”
“I was down in town, today, that’s what, and
everyone was telling me I should be keeping an eye on my little
sister. That silver dagger’s been riding into town to fetch
you, hasn’t he?”
“And what if he has?” Glaenara set her hands on her
hips. “It’s decent of him to give me a ride when
I’m tired.”
“Ride—hah! Who’s riding what, Glae?”
“You little pus boil! Don’t you talk to me that
way!”
Nalyn grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“You tell me the truth.”
Glaenara twisted free and kicking him across the shins. When he
grabbed her again and held tight this time, she was shocked at how
strong he was—towering over her, causing her pain with an
easy masculine strength.
“You’ve been rolling around with that lad,
haven’t you? He wouldn’t want naught else out of the
likes of you.”
This very real possibility made Glaenara burst into tears.
“Oh, ye gods!” Nalyn snapped. “It’s
true, isn’t it?”
“So what if it is? Can’t I have one thing in my
rotten life that I want just because I want it?”
With an oath, Nalyn let go of her, then slapped her hard across
the face. Glaenara slapped back without thinking, and at that, the
long bad feeling between them erupted. He grabbed her by the
shoulder, twisted her around, and slapped her hard across the
behind. As hard as she fought and kicked—and she landed some
bruises on him—she couldn’t get free. The pain of his
slaps was nothing compared with her terror at feeling so helpless.
She was sobbing so hard that she could barely see. Dimly she heard
her mother screaming and Lidyan’s voice calling out. All at
once, Nalyn let her go. Glaenara staggered and almost fell into her
sister’s arms.
“Nal, Nal,” Myna whined. “What are you
doing?”
“Beating a little slut,” Nalyn sputtered out.
“Lida, let go of her! I won’t have my wife feeling
sorry for a slut like this. Her and her cursed silver dagger! Ye
gods, I’m never going to be able to make her a decent match
now.”
Lidyan started to cry, her hands slack on Glaenara’s arm.
Still terrified, Glaenara turned to her mother, to find Myna
staring in paralyzed disbelief, her thin lips trembling, her
patient eyes full of tears. Glaenara tried to speak, but she choked
on pure shame.
“Glae,” Myna whispered, “tell me it’s
not true.”
Glaenara wanted to lie, but she was shaking too badly to speak.
Myna reached out her hand, then drew it back, staring at her all
the while with aching eyes.
“Glae,” Lidyan wailed, “how could
you?”
But Lidyan was watching her husband; Myna turned toward him,
too, a final slap sharper than any hand. They were both going to
let him pass judgement on her.
“It’s true enough,” Glaenara spat out.
“Go on! Call me what you want. I won’t be here to
listen!”
Glaenara barreled through the gate, raced as fast as she could
down the road, kept running even when she heard them call her back.
She hardly knew what she was doing; she only wanted to run and run
and never see any of them again. Her mother was siding with Nalyn.
At the thought tears came to choke her and leave her gasping,
forcing her to fling herself down into the tall grass to weep. By
the time she’d wept herself dry, the sun was setting. She got
up, expecting to see Nalyn coming after her to beat her some more,
but the twilight road was empty, the house far behind. She wiped
her dirty face on her sleeve and began running again, heading for
town and Braedda, who would maybe forgive her—perhaps, she
thought, the only person in the world who would.
At last, just as the stars were pricking the velvet sky,
Glaenara reached the village. As she stood behind the inn and
wondered if Samwna would even let her inside, once she knew the
truth, the tears rose up again, hot and choking. She had no place
in life anymore, nowhere to go, nothing to call her own; she was a
shamed woman and a slut and naught more. She was still weeping when
Braedda’s enormous cousin, Cenedd the blacksmith’s son,
came strolling through the innyard.
“Glae, by the gods!” Cenedd said. “And
what’s all this?”
“Nalyn turned me out, and I deserved it. All because of
Maer.”
When Cenedd caught her by the shoulders, Glaenara flinched back,
expecting that he would beat her, too.
“Bastards, both of them,” Cenedd said
matter-of-factly. “Now don’t cry like that.” He
turned his head and yelled. “Braedda, get out
here!”
When Braedda and Samwna hurried out, Glaenara blurted the truth
between sobs, simply because there was no use in lying. Braedda
began to cry, too, but Samwna took charge—again, as
matter-of-factly as Cenedd.
“Now, now, it’s not the end of the world. Oh, Glae,
you’ve been such a dolt, but truly, I was afraid this was
going to happen. Here, you’re not with child, are
you?”
“I don’t know. It’s not been long enough to
tell.”
“Well, then, we’ll know when we know and not a
minute later. You come inside where it’s warm, and
we’ll all have some nice hot ale.”
As the two women led her into the kitchen, Glae looked back to
see Cenedd standing and talking urgently with Ewsn and Selyn, the
weaver’s son. She and Braedda sat huddled together on a bench
in the corner of the kitchen while Samwna bustled around, pouring
ale into a tall metal flagon and setting it into the coals on the
hearth.
“Mam?” Braedda said. “Can Glae sleep here
tonight?”
“Of course. There’s no use in trying to talk sense
to Nalyn until he’s had a chance to cool off a
bit.”
“My thanks,” Glae stammered. “Why would you
even help me? You should just let me sleep in the road.”
“Hush, hush! You’re not the first lass in the world
to make a fool out of herself over a good-looking rider, and
doubtless you won’t be the last.”
Ewsn stuck his gray head into the kitchen and caught
Samwna’s attention.
“Be back in a bit. Just going for a ride with some of the
lads. We’ve been thinking about poor Myna, you
see.”
“So have I,” Samwna said. “It aches my
heart.”
“You’re not going out to the farm, are you?”
Glaenara blurted out.
“Not just yet, lass,” Ewsn said. “We’ll
let your brother think things over before we do that.”
After dinner, Pertyc’s riders were welcome to sit in the
great hall and drink while they gossiped or watched the little
there was to see. Maer and Cadmyn were playing dice when Ewsn the
inkeep, Cenedd the blacksmith’s son, and Selyn the
weaver’s son came into the great hall, stood looking around
them for a hesitant moment, then went over to whisper urgently to
Pertyc.
“Wonder what they’re doing here,” Cadmyn
remarked.
“Who knows? Seems a strange time of day to pay your
taxes.”
In a few minutes a smirking Adraegyn came skipping over to the
riders’ table.
“Maer, Da wants to see you. You’re in real trouble,
Maer.”
“Am I now? Then why are you grinning like a
fiend?”
“You’ll see. Come on, Maer. Da wants you right
now.”
Up by Lord Pertyc’s carved chair stood Ewsn, Cenedd, and
Selyn, all of them with their arms crossed over their chests and
their mouths set in tight lines. Pertyc himself seemed to be
smothering laughter. Maer shoved a couple of dogs out of the way
and knelt at the lord’s feet.
“I wanted to tender you my congratulations, Maer,”
Pertyc said.
“Congratulations, my lord?”
“On your coming marriage.”
Utterly puzzled, sure that this was a prank, Maer glanced this
way and that. Cenedd stepped forward, looking somehow even more
enormous than usual.
“Marriage,” Cenedd said. “You’ve been
trifling with Glae, you little bastard, and now her brother’s
kicked her out.”
“Marriage isn’t as bad as all that, Maer.”
Pertyc leaned forward with a look of bland sincerity on his face.
“Why, I did it myself once, and it didn’t kill
me—though in all honesty it came blasted near.”
Maer tried to speak and failed while the warband snickered among
themselves.
“I guess I’d best give you a permanent place in my
warband,” Pertyc went on. “Can’t have poor Glae
riding behind a silver dagger.”
“Now, here,” Maer squeaked. “I haven’t
even said I would yet.”
Cenedd flexed his massive muscles.
“Now look, I’ll make a cursed rotten husband. Glae
deserves better than me.”
“So she does,” Ewsn put in. “But it’s a
bit late for that now, lad. You’re the one who’s been
lifting her skirts, and you’re the one who’s marrying
her.”
Ewsn and Selyn stooped like striking hawks, grabbed Maer one at
each arm, and hauled him to his feet.
“Now listen,” Cenedd said. “You lost Glae her
home. Either you give her another one, or I’ll pound you into
slime.”
Maer had the sincere feeling he was going to faint.
“If she comes to live with you here in the dun,”
Pertyc said, “I’ve got just the place for her.
I’ve never known as strong-minded a lass as our Glae, so she
can be my daughter’s nursemaid. Here, you’ve gone all
white, lad! You’ll like being married. It just takes a bit of
getting used to. We’ll see what we can do about getting you a
chamber to yourselves here in the broch.” He glanced at a
smirking servant. “Go saddle Maer’s horse for him.
He’s riding down to the village to see his
betrothed.”
Catcalls, cheers, and jeers—the warband exploded into
laughter.
“Hey, Maer!” Crindd called. “Now this is truly
funny!”
With a deep involuntary groan, Maer shut his eyes and let Cenedd
drag him out into the ward. Adraegyn came running after and gave
Maer’s sleeve a tug.
“But, Maer, what did you do to Glae?”
“Go ask your father, lad. It’s too complicated to
explain right now.”
A grim procession of three villagers and one newly betrothed
silver dagger rode round to the back of the inn to dismount. When
Maer hesistated, Cenedd pulled him bodily from his horse, shook him
hard, and set him on his feet again. When Maer groaned at the
injustice of it all, Cenedd gave him a shove and sent him
staggering inside, where Ewsn, Selyn, Samwna, and Braedda were all
waiting and, just behind them, Nevyn stood and glared. Maer went
cold all over in terror, remembering two very salient facts: Nevyn
had taken Glae under his wing, and he was a sorcerer,
capable—Maer was suddenly positive on this point—of
turning men into frogs. No hope now, Maer thought: it’s
marriage or the marsh. Glae herself was huddled on a bench in a
corner. He’d never seen anyone look so miserable as she did
then, her eyes swollen from weeping, her pretty dress torn and
dirty, and on her cheek a flat red welt. All at once, Maer realized
that her brother must have beaten her, and he felt himself to be
the most dishonorable wretch in the entire kingdom. Glae raised her
head and looked at him, her mouth trembling with tears.
“You don’t have to marry me if you don’t want
to.” Her voice was dry and cold. “I’d rather
starve than take that kind of charity.”
“Oh, hold your tongue! Of course I want to marry
you!” He hurried over and threw himself down to kneel beside
her. “Here, my sweet, forgive me. I’ve been cursed
rotten to you.”
Glaenara stared as if she couldn’t believe her ears. When
he held out his hand, she let hers lie limply in his, as if she
hardly cared what he did to her.
“Glae, I truly want to marry you. Now come on, give your
man a smile, won’t you?”
At last Glaenara did smile, shyly at first, then blossoming into
the brilliant grin that made her look beautiful. Nevyn pushed his
way through the gathering crowd and fixed Maer with an ice-blue
glare.
“You’d best be a good husband.”
“The best you’ve ever seen. I swear it.”
“Good.” Nevyn started to say more, then glanced to
one side, frowning.
When Maer followed his gaze, he saw Little Blue-hair sitting
cross-legged on the floor like a child. That night she seemed about
three feet tall, and more solid than he’d ever seen her
before. She pointed to Glae, wrinkled up her nose in scorn, then
began to weep. As Maer watched horrified, she slowly vanished,
fading away, turning transparent, then gone, tears and all. Yet
somehow, he knew she’d be back. When he glanced back
Nevyn’s way, he found the old man troubled, and that was the
most frightening thing of all.
That year, which was 918 as Deverry men reckon time, Loddlaen
turned three, a slender, solemn child with pale hair and enormous
purple eyes. Although the other children treated him as one of
their own, he always seemed set apart from the games and the
general shouting, preferring to cling to his father’s trouser
leg and merely watch the goings-on or to play quietly with his
foster brother, Javanateriel, in the safety of a tent. In his
better moments, Aderyn wondered if the time he’d spent
trapped in his mother’s womb off in the Guardians’
strange country had affected him in some way, but usually he
refused to believe that anything could be wrong with his beautiful
son. Even when Loddlaen woke in the night screaming from horrible
dreams, Aderyn told himself that all children dreamt of monsters
and suchlike at his age.
The autumn alardan that year was one of the largest Aderyn had
ever seen. Since all summer the weather had been exceptionally
fine, the grass was exceptionally lush, meaning that there was
enough fodder near the campground to feed the herds for a few days
longer than usual, and the elves took advantage of it for a long
week of feasting and good company. Although Aderyn didn’t
bother to count, it seemed to him that at least five hundred tents
sprang up along the stream chosen for the great meeting. At night
the tiny cooking fires looked like a field of stars. There were so
many horses and sheep that the mounted herders had to take them out
a long way around the camp, half a day’s ride in some
cases.
It was no wonder, then, that Ganedd and his small caravan
stumbled across the alardan, especially since the young merchant
had enough sense to realize that the elves would be travelling
south by then instead of camping near the usual trading sites.
Aderyn had met Ganedd several times before; he rather liked the
lad, and he could sympathize with his desire to break free of his
family’s constricted life and see something of the world. It
was Aderyn that Ganedd sought out, in fact, once he and his men had
been fed and given a place to set up their own tent, because Ganedd
knew elven ways well enough to come to the Wise One first. As soon
as Aderyn heard his story, though, he sent for Halaberiel. The
banadar was beginning to show his age; there were deep
crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes, and in certain lights
you would have sworn that you could see streaks of gray in his pale
hair.
“Hal, you’d best listen to this,” Aderyn said.
“There’s trouble in Cannobaen, and two half-elven
children are involved.”
“Pertyc Maelwaedd’s offspring?” Halaberiel
glanced at Ganedd.
“Yes, Banadar.” The boy’s Elvish was not good,
but adequate. “He sent me here with a letter for his wife. He
needs help badly. His enemies are threatening to burn his stone
tent and kill him and his children. He has eleven men and no
archers. They have hundreds and hundreds of men.”
“Well, how like the cursed Round-ears, to count on unfair
odds like that.” Halaberiel changed to Deverrian for the sake
of their guest. “I doubt me if you can find his wife, lad.
The last I saw of her, she was heading west with her alar to the
far camps. I’ll send out messengers, but we don’t have
a blasted lot of hope of catching up with her in time.”
“Well, I was afraid of that, sir,” Ganedd said.
“But what we really need are bows, and extra arrows, and
maybe an archer or two to show us how to use them, though truly
they’d best be gone again before the siege starts. It would
ache my heart to have your people slain in what’s most likely
a hopeless cause.”
“I remember Pertyc from his wedding.” Halaberiel
glanced at Aderyn. “As I remember, you missed that particular
celebration, Wise One. He’s a good man, the only Round-ear I
eve really liked—well, besides you, but then, you’re
not really a Round-ear. Never were, as far as I can tell. I
don’t see why Annaleria ever married him, but cursed if
I’ll sit here while a man I like gets himself murdered in his
tent.”
“You’ll help us, sir?” Ganedd broke into a
grin.
“I will. Bows you shall have, and arrows, and me and some
of my men, too. Calonderiel’s always spoiling for a good
scrap, and I think Farendar and Albaral will ride with us for the
excitement of the thing, and then there’s young Jennantar,
who needs to learn Eldidd speech. I’ll pass the word around
and see if anyone else’s heart burns to come with us, but
truly, Ganedd, I don’t want to risk many more men than
that.”
“Banadar, you’re worth a hundred Round-ear men by
yourself alone.”
Halaberiel laughed.
“Put me up high on a stone wall with a good bow and
someone to keep filling my quiver, and you might just be right,
lad. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Although Aderyn’s first reaction was a sick feeling at
this elven interference in human politics, in the end he decided
that there was nothing he could do to prevent it. As the Wise One,
Aderyn could have overruled the banadar, but only at a great social
cost; there would have been arguments for days, and the entire
alardan would have lined up on one side or the other, leading to
further trouble for years to come. Besides, he considered that
indeed Pertyc Maelwaedd had every justice on his side and deserved
defending, as he remarked to Nevyn when they talked later that
evening through the fire.
“I agree, actually,” Nevyn thought back to him.
“But do you think archers are going to make that much of a
difference?”
“I do. I mean, Hal tells me that in an open field the
rebel army could easily wipe out a small squad of archers, but this
isn’t an open field, is it? The banadar’s bringing two
fletchers with us, and I gather he’s going to have them spend
all winter making arrows while he trains Pertyc’s
men.”
“I see. Wait—did you say with
us?”
“I thought I’d best come along. I’d like to
bring Loddlaen, so you could see him, but it’s just too
dangerous.”
“On that, at least, I couldn’t agree more. You know,
there’s a thing going on here that I’d like you to take
a look at, too. Do you remember Maddyn?”
Aderyn thought for a long moment.
“Oh, the bard! The one who had the silver ring with the
roses on it.”
“Exactly. Well, he’s been reborn, and he’s
here, and that wretched little blue sprite is still hanging around
him. You know, I think she honestly loves him. I didn’t think
the Wildfolk were capable of that.”
“No more did I.”
“And now Maer’s starting seeing her and all of her
kin, for that matter. He came to me about it the other day, poor
lad, quite troubled about it. I made a little speech, all pompous
and vague, about the magical nature of borderlands in general and
this one in particular, and I dropped a few harmless hints about
the Westfolk. Blather, it was, but he was impressed and felt much
better. I could hardly tell him that being around me was awakening
his deepest memories of his last life.”
“If that’s all it is. The sprite may have something
to do with this, too. I’m on my way, then. We leave at dawn
tomorrow, and since we have a pack train to contend with,
it’ll probably take us a fortnight at the very least to reach
Cannobaen.”
“Well and good. I’m looking forward to seeing you
again.”
“And I, you. It’s been too long.”
On the day that the caravan arrived in Cannobaen, it poured
rain, one of those quiet storms that without any pompous show of
thunder and lightning settle in to soak everything. Since Maer had
drawn stable duty that morning, he was out in the ward, wrapped in
a greased cloak with the hood up, sweeping the stable leavings into
a mound for the gardener. The rain had just finally found its way
through the heavy wool to run down his back when he heard a clatter
of hooves and a shout at the gates. Delighted with the distraction,
he dropped his rake and trotted over just as Ganedd led his men and
laden mules inside. Maer whooped in delight and yelled at the
gardener to run and fetch his lordship.
“Maer!” Ganedd sang out. “Gladdens my heart
and all that! We’ve done it, Maer! We’ve got bows and
the men to teach us how to use them.”
Maer whooped again; he’d been rather looking forward to
living longer than one winter more. All at once he realized that
Wildfolk were swarming around the tiny caravan, and that he could
see them all more clearly than ever before. Sylphs hung in the air,
delighting in the rain; undines rose up out of puddles and grinned
at him; sprites and gnomes thronged around the animals and sat on
the saddles and mule packs; some of the bolder creatures were even
perched on the shoulders of the men or rushed to greet them as they
dismounted. Nevyn’s impressive remarks about the Westfolk and
their affinities began to take on actual meaning.
“Come on!” Ganedd called. “Take our guests
inside to meet Lord Pertyc. Here come the servants to tend the
stock.”
With Ganedd in the lead they all dashed into the great hall,
which was hot and smoky from the fires roaring in both hearths.
Immediately everyone threw off their cloaks and dropped them into a
wet and smelly heap for a serving lass to deal with later. Maer
received his second shock of the day, because he’d never seen
an elf before, never even knew that they existed, in fact. Cat-slit
and enormous eyes of green and purple and indigo blue, hair as pale
as moonlight, and the ears—try as he might he couldn’t
look away. Finally a tall fellow with violet eyes took offense.
“And just what are you staring at, you Round-ear
dog?”
“Cal, hold your tongue!” As fast as any lord to
break up a brawl, the eldest of the lot stepped in between them.
“You can’t blame the lad for being surprised. He
can’t be such a bad fellow, anyway, since he’s friends
with the Wildfolk.”
Maer glanced down to see Little Blue-hair. She’d come up
beside him and taken his hand in one of hers; now she leaned
against his trouser leg and stared at the visitors like a shy
child.
“You see them, too?” Maer whispered.
“Of course.” The man called Cal smiled and held out
his hand. “Friends?”
“Done.”
They shook hands solemnly; then Cal hurried after the others to
be presented to the lord.
“Ganedd, my friend, if it were in my power to ennoble you,
I would,” Pertyc said. “Since it’s not, and since
I don’t have more than a handful of coin to my name, I
don’t really know how I’ll ever be able to repay
you.”
“Well, my lord, if we all get ourselves killed in the
spring, repayment’s a moot point, anyway.”
Pertyc laughed and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“I like you merchants. So hardheaded, so practical. Well,
if I can figure out a way to do it, I’ll repay you anyway,
especially if by some miracle we do live through the
spring.”
“Then I’ll take it gladly, my lord. Here, the
servants should have brought those bows up by now. If his lordship
will excuse me, I’ll just go hurry them along.”
“Please do. I don’t think I’ve ever waited
more eagerly for anything than I’ve been waiting for those
bows. And I need to have a word with my old friend Halaberiel
anyway.”
As Ganedd was leaving the great hall, he came face to face with
a young woman. With Glaenara—Ganedd stared openmouthed. All
bathed and civilized as she was, he hadn’t recognized her for
a moment. Even her hair was glossy-clean and growing longer,
curling softly around her face. Her hands were clean, too, and her
nails nicely manicured.
“What’s wrong, Ganno? Fall off your horse and hit
your head?”
“Oh, my apologies, Glae! I, uh, well, just didn’t
recognize you. I mean: I wasn’t expecting to see you
here.”
“I’m married to Maer now.”
“The silver dagger?”
“Well, he isn’t that anymore.” She hesitated,
suddenly distressed. “Ganno, do you still want to marry
Braedda?”
“What? Of course.”
“Then you’d best get down to the village today. When
your da got back from Aberwyn, you know? He went straight to
Braedda’s father and tried to break off the betrothal, but
Ewsn, bless him, said he’d wait to speak with you about
it.”
Ganedd took her advice and rode down as soon as Pertyc gave him
leave, much later that day. The rain had rolled on its way by then,
leaving the sunset clean and bright, with a snap of the sea wind
and the tang of salt in the air. Round back of his parents’
house he tethered his horse, then climbed over the garden wall and
let himself in the back door. Twelve-year-old Avyl was in the
kitchen, badgering the cook for a piece of bread and honey. When he
saw Ganedd, he smirked. The cook threw her apron over her face and
began to weep.
“Oho, so you came home, huh?” Avyl said.
“Wait’ll you see Da.”
When Ganedd stalked by, Avyl followed, snickering. The noise
brought Moligga out into the corridor. She took one look at Ganedd
and began to tremble. Avyl abruptly held his tongue.
“I’m sorry, Mam,” Ganedd said. “But I
had to do what I think is right.”
She started to speak, then merely shook her head in a scatter of
tears. When Ganedd went to lay his hand on her arm, she drew
back.
“Ganno, get out,” Moligga said, almost whispering.
“I don’t want your father even seeing you.”
“Indeed? Well, I want to say a thing or two to him. Tell
me one thing: how do you feel about this rebellion?”
“Do you think I care one way or another? Oh, ye gods, that
ever it would come to this: my lad and my man, at each
other’s throats, and all over a kind I’ve never even
seen!” Slowly the tears welled, running down her cheeks.
“Ganno, he made a declaration before the whole guild and cut
you off.”
“I knew he would. Where is he?”
“Don’t.” Moligga caught his arm. “Just
leave.”
As gently as he could, Ganedd pushed past her and walked on down
the corridor. He flung open the door to his father’s study
and marched in without knocking. Wersyn rose from his writing desk,
his fingers clasping a leather-bound ledger, and gave him a sour
little smile.
“Who are you? Strange—you remind me of my dead
son.”
For a moment, Ganedd couldn’t breathe. Wersyn went on
smiling. The silence hung as thick as sea fog in the tiny
chamber.
“Then count me his spirit come back from the Otherlands
for a little while. And I’ll give you a warning, like spirits
do. If I live through this winter, then I’m going to see to
it that you never trade in the Westlands again. They’re my
friends, Da, not yours, and you cursed well know it.”
With a gasp, Wersyn hurled the ledger straight at his head.
Ganedd dodged, laughing.
“But it’s for the king’s sake, Da. Not
mine.”
His face scarlet with rage, Wersyn rushed him, his hand raised
for a slap. Ganedd heard Moligga scream. He dodged, caught his
father’s wrists, and grimly held on. No matter how much
Wersyn struggled, he couldn’t break free. He was panting for
breath and weeping in frustration at the inescapable truth: his
little son was the stronger man now. When Moligga started to sob,
Ganedd let him go.
“You can’t hit a dead man. Farewell.”
Ganedd turned on his heel and walked slowly out, strode down the
corridor, and opened the front door. His brother’s skinny
little face stared at him wide-eyed.
“I’m the heir now, Ganno. What do you think of
that?”
“They should have drowned you young. Like the rat-faced
weasel you are.”
Earlier that day Aderyn had ridden down to see Nevyn in his
cottage, where they could talk privately of things that would only
unsettle ordinary men. Nevyn was surprised by just how glad he was
to see his old pupil in the flesh rather than through a scrying
focus, enough so to make him wonder if he were growing old and
sentimental or suchlike. For hours they talked of everything and
nothing, sharing news of the craft and the various apprentices
they’d taken in the past or, in Aderyn’s case, that
they had now.
“The Westfolk are really amazing when it comes to
magic,” Aderyn said at last. “They have more of an
affinity for it than we do.”
“No doubt. Look at how vital they are, living so long
while keeping so young-seeming and all. It seems to me that they
must be far more open to the flow of the life-power than humans
are.”
“They’re far more in harmony with life itself,
actually. Well”—Aderyn’s expression suddenly
turned blank and closed—“most of them.”
Nevyn could figure out that somehow the conversation had brought
Dallandra to his mind.
“Ah, well,” Nevyn said, and a bit hurriedly.
“I take it that your larger work is going well, too.
Restoring the full dweomer to the Westfolk, I mean.”
They talked for a good long while more and parted with
arrangements made to meet on the morrow as well. After Aderyn went
on his way, Nevyn went into his bedchamber and sat down on the
wooden floor to lift up the loose board and take out the small
wooden casket where the opal was hidden. It was wrapped in five
pieces of Bardek silk: the palest purple-gray, a flaming red, a
deep sea blue, a sunny yellow, and then a mottled bit, russet,
citrine, olive, and black. He laid it in the palm of his hand and
considered the stone as it gleamed softly in the candlelight.
Since any good stone will pick up bits of emotion,
dream-thought, and life-force from its owners and the events around
it, Nevyn had postponed starting his work upon it. His own will and
feelings were troubled and clouded by what he referred to as
“this stupid rebellion,” and if his mind wasn’t
utterly clear, he would inevitably charge the opal with the wrong
thoughts. The last thing he wanted his talisman to radiate to the
High Kings of All Deverry was a self-righteous irritation. They
doubtless could summon enough of that on their own. One way or
another, he’d have to settle things here in Cannobaen before
he could get down to work. Ah well, he told himself, if you’d
wanted an easy life, you could have been a wretched priest and been
done with it!
AFTER SIXTY-ODD years in Bardek, Nevyn returned to
Eldidd late in the summer of 918, landing in Aberwyn with some
unusual cargo tucked inside his shirt for safety’s sake.
While he’d been abroad, studying the scholarly dweomer lore
of the Bardekian priests, he’d gotten the idea of making a
talisman for the High King, a magically charged jewel that would
radiate the noble virtues endlessly to its owner’s mind. To
that end, he’d bought an extremely unusual stone and studied
the various writings about such creations in the libraries of
various temples, but to make the talisman, he brought the stone
home. As big as a walnut, but perfectly round and smoothly
polished, a tribute to the art of Bardek jewelers, the opal was
shot through with pale gold veins and bluish-pink shadows, as
mottled as the coat of some exotic animal. At the moment, for all
it beauty, it was an ordinary jewel, a dull thing in its way,
though worth a fortune. By the time Nevyn got done with it, it
would be supremely interesting, and worth a man’s life.
Down in the center of Aberwyn stood the hall of the merchant
guild, an imposing fat tower with glass in the downstairs windows
and a stout slate roof. Their official money changer held court in
a bare stone room with a hearth, two chairs, and a long table,
where Nevyn found a stout and gray-haired man sitting behind a
litter of Bardek-style scrolls. Behind him, at the entrance to
another room, an armed guard slouched against the wall.
“I’m just back from Bardek,” Nevyn said to the
money changer.
“You’ve hit the rate of exchange at a good time,
good sir. Sit down, sit down.”
As Nevyn pulled up the rickety three-legged chair, he noticed
the guard watching him with the interest of the longtime bored, a
young man of about twenty, tall and well muscled, with blond hair,
blue eyes, and the beginnings of a mustache blotching his upper
lip. Nevyn wouldn’t have given him a second thought if it
weren’t for the silver dagger at his belt. As it was, he took
a good look at the lad’s face and then nearly swore aloud,
because the soul behind his eyes struck him as familiar and
friendly both. Before he could observe more, the money
changer’s voice claimed his attention.
“We’ve been giving thirty Deverry silvers for each
Bardek zotar of full weight.”
“Indeed? That certainly is generous! Are things troubled
in Eldidd?”
“Have you been away for some time?”
“Years, actually.”
“Hum.” The money changer reflected upon something
before he spoke again. “I hope to every god in the Otherlands
that these rumors are only rumors, but they say the gwerbrets are
still pining for the days when they were princes. The High
King’s a long way away, my friend.”
“Just so. Rebellion?”
“Let us merely say that Bardek merchants have never gotten
rich by allowing themselves to be caught in the middle of trouble.
They’re not bringing us as much sound coinage as they once
did.”
The money changer counted out Nevyn’s zotars, marked the
tally on a bit of parchment, which Nevyn signed, then went back
through the doorway to his vault to change the coins. Nevyn turned
to the young guard and gave him a pleasant smile.
“What’s your name, lad? It looks like this duty
wears on you.”
“Maer, my lord. But I won’t be guarding this
fellow’s stores much longer. He just hired me to fill in,
like. His regular man broke his wrist in a fall, you see, but
thanks be to the gods, the splints are off now.”
When Nevyn risked opening up a quick bit of the dweomer sight
with the sigils that controlled memory, the silver dagger’s
face blurred and changed. For a moment Nevyn seemed to look into
the weary eyes of Maddyn the bard. Nevyn was so glad to see him
that he wanted to jump up and embrace him, but of course, since
Maer would have no conscious memory of his last life, he did
nothing of the sort.
“And what will you do next?” Nevyn said. “If
these rumors of trouble are true, there’ll be plenty of work
for silver daggers in Eldidd.”
“Oh, it’s all a lot of horseshit if you ask me, my
lord. The gwerbrets can mutter over their ale easy enough, but
getting the coin to outfit an army’s a bit harder. I’ll
go west, I suppose. I’ve never ridden that way
before.”
It was perhaps an omen of sorts. Nevyn had no real idea of where
to settle down while he performed the dweomer work on the opal, but
on the western coast lay a quiet little village that held pleasant
memories for him.
“I’m heading west myself,” Nevyn said.
“How would your captain feel if I rode with your troop a
ways?”
“Captain? Troop?” Mael paused for a laugh.
“The silver daggers haven’t ridden as a troop in fifty
years, good sir. It was that royal decree, you know. We can only
ride together one or two at a time, no more.”
“Indeed?” Nevyn was honestly shocked. I’ve
stayed away too long, he told himself. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s the king’s law, and
so it’s good enough for me. But I’m for hire, sure
enough, if you need a guard.”
“Feel like riding to Cannobaen?”
“Gladly. A couple of silver pieces?”
“Done. We’ll leave at dawn, then, the day after
tomorrow.”
When the time came to leave, Maer turned up promptly. Nevyn was
loading up his newly purchased riding horse and pack mule in the
little innyard just at dawn when the silver dagger appeared,
leading a splendid black warhorse, laden with a pair of saddlebags,
a bedroll, a plain white shield, and a pot helm, all tied in a
messy sort of way to his saddle. He looked over the mule packs with
some interest.
“So you’re a herbman, are you?”
“I am. Don’t worry about falling sick on our
journey.”
Maer grinned and finished loading the mule without being asked.
They led their horses through the busy morning streets, then
mounted outside the west gate just as the last of the sea fog was
burning off into a late-summer morning. To their left, the
turquoise sea sparkled and churned at the foot of pale cliffs, and
to their right, the winter wheat stood ripe and golden in the
fields. As they rode, Maer burst into good cheer, whistling and
singing in a fine clear tenor that with training would have made
him a bard. Nevyn was so genuinely glad to hear the man he would
always think of as Maddyn sing again that he had to give himself a
stern warning. This was Maer now, not Maddyn, and it was against
the laws of dweomer as well as common sense to treat the one as the
other.
When he turned in the saddle to pay Maer a compliment on his
voice, he was in for a surprise. Riding behind the silver
dagger’s saddle and clinging to him like a child was a
good-sized blue sprite. Just as he was telling himself that of
course it couldn’t be the same creature, not Maddyn’s
favorite still loyal after all these years, the sprite grinned at
him in such smug contentment that he was forced to recognize her.
Over the next few days, as they made their slow way to Cannobaen,
Nevyn saw the sprite often, hovering around Maer during the day,
cuddling up to him like a dog while he slept at night. It became
obvious, though, that Maer never saw her, because often he would
have stepped on her if she hadn’t jumped aside. Once, when
Maer was off at a farmhouse buying food, Nevyn got a chance alone
with her. Talking about death to one of the Wildfolk was, of
course, a complete waste of time.
“He doesn’t see you anymore, you know. He’s
changed since the last time you saw him.”
She snarled, exposing long and pointed teeth.
“It’s not good for you to follow him this way. You
should be off with your own kind.”
At that she threw back her head and howled, a thin wisp of
sound. Since normally the Wildfolk were incapable of making noise,
Nevyn became even more troubled.
“I’ll talk with one of your kings,” he began,
“and we’ll see what . . . ”
In a screech of fury she seemed to swell, sucking up substance
from the material plane and turning for one brief moment quite
solid and as large as a growing child. Then she was gone in a gust
of cold air.
Beside seeing the Wildfolk, Maer had been a silver dagger in his
last life, too, of course, but Nevyn tended to consider that a
simple coincidence. Although he would never have pried into the
reason for his dishonor, Maer himself volunteered the story as they
sat round the campfire on their second night out.
“You’re not an Eldidd man, are you?” Nevyn had
asked him.
“I’m not. I was born in Blaeddbyr, over in Deverry,
and that’s where I got this blasted dagger, too. I was riding
for the Wolf clan, you see, and one night, well, me and the lads
got a bit drunk. So one of my friends got this daft idea. There was
this lass he fancied—oh, bad it was, good sir—he was
like a boar in rut over the tailor’s daughter, but her da, he
kept an eye as sharp as one of his needles on the lass. So my
friend puts us up to helping him. We went round to the
tailor’s shop and Nyn calls the lass out of her bedroom
window, while me and the other lad went round the front. We pretend
to get into a brawl, you see, and old Da comes running out. So we
led him a merry dance, insulting him and having a fine old time,
and truly we got a bit carried away.” With a sigh, Maer
rubbed his chin with a rueful hand. “We ducked him in the
village horse trough, just for the fun of the thing, and all the
time Nyn’s tumbling the daughter out under a hedgerow. So Da
goes complaining to the lord, and cursed if Avoic doesn’t
side with the old tailor and kick us out of the warband! Cursed
unjust, I say. He let Nyn come back, though, because the stupid
lass had to go and get a child, and so Nyn had to marry
her.”
Maer sounded so indignant that Nevyn laughed aloud. Maer drew
himself up square-shouldered and glared at him.
“Don’t you think it was unjust?”
“Umph, well. But you’re the first lad I’ve
ever met who got that dagger because of a prank.”
“That’s been the tale of my days, good sir. I only
want a bit of fun, and ye gods, everyone goes and takes it
wrong.”
Late on a summer afternoon, Nevyn and his guard rode to the top
of a rise and saw Cannobaen spread out along the little stream
called Y Brog. At the sight of the round, thatched houses, Maer
broke into a wide grin.
“Ale tonight with supper, my lord. Or do they even have a
tavern in this hole?”
“They did the last time I was here. But that was a long
time ago.”
At a hundred families, mostly of farmers or fishermen, Cannobaen
was about twice as big as Nevyn had been remembering it. There was
a good-sized proper inn on the old site o fthe small tavern. After
he rented a chamber, Nevyn ordered ale and a meal for himself and
stood the silver dagger to one last dinner, too. The innkeep, a
stout fellow named Ewsn, hovered nearby.
“Do you get much trade through here?” Nevyn said,
mostly to be polite.
“We’ve got a merchant in our town who buys and sells
off in the west—with those tribes with the strange-sounding
names. Men from Aberwyn come through every now and then to buy the
horses he brings back.” He hesitated, sucking stumps of
teeth. “Be you a herbman, sir? My wife has this pain in her
joints, you see, and so I was wondering.”
“I am at that. In the morning I’ll be glad to have a
talk with her if she’d like.”
The morning, however, apparently wasn’t good enough for
the innkeep’s wife, Samwna. While she served Nevyn and Maer
their dinner, Samwna also treated them to a long recital of
symptoms as well rehearsed as a bard’s performance. While
they ate roast beef and turnips, they heard all about the
mysterious pain in her joints, strange aches in the small of her
back, and night sweats, sometimes hot, sometimes cold. With the
apple tart, they heard about headaches and odd moments when she
felt quite dizzy.
“It’s all related to your woman’s change of
life,” Nevyn said. “I’ve got soothing herbs that
should help a good deal.”
Maer went scarlet and almost choked.
“My most humble thanks.” Samwna made him a little
curtsy. “I’ve been wondering and wondering, I have.
Here, you’re not thinking of settling in our town, are you,
good sir? It’s been years and years since there’s been
a herbman in our neighborhood.”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m getting too old to
wander the roads, and I want a nice quiet place to settle
down.”
“Oh, towns don’t come much quieter than
Cannobaen!” Samwna paused to laugh. “Why, the big
excitement lately was when one of Lord Pertyc’s boarhounds
killed two chickens over at Myna’s farm.”
Nevyn smiled, well pleased. Idly he rubbed the front of his
shirt and touched the opal hidden inside. If there’s trouble,
he thought, it can cursed well stay in Aberwyn! No doubt remote
Cannobaen would be undisturbed by these rumors of rebellion.
“By every hell, how can you be so stubborn?”
“It comes with my family title.” Pertyc Maelwaedd
touched the device on his shirt. “We’re Badgers, my
friend. We hold on.”
“By that line of thinking, we Bears should have to stay in
holes.” Danry, Tieryn Cernmeton and Pertyc’s closest
friend, perched on the edge of a carved table and considered him.
“But cursed if I will.”
“Why do you think I nicknamed you the Falcon, back when we
were lads? But this time you’re flying too high.”
They were sequestered in Pertyc’s small study behind a
barred door, and a good thing, too, because Danry was talking
treason. Since Pertyc had a taste for clutter, the room was
crowded: a large writing table, a shelf with twenty leather-bound
codices, two chairs, a scatter of small Bardek carpets, and on the
wall, a pair of moth-eaten stag’s heads, trophies of some
long-forgotten hunt of a remote ancestor. Pertyc’s helm
perched jauntily on the antlers of the largest stag, and his shield
was propped up against a book-laden lectern carved with intertwined
dogs and badgers.
“I’ve always liked my demesne,” Pertyc
remarked absently. “So remote here on the border. Nice and
quiet. Easy to stay out of trouble in a place like
Cannobaen.”
“You can’t stay out of this. That’s what you
don’t understand.”
“Indeed? Just watch.”
Danry sighed again. He was a tall man, with a florid face that
usually simmered on the edge of rage, and thick blond mustaches
that were usually damp with mead. Lately, however, Danry had been
withdrawn, and the mustaches had a ratty look, as if he’d
been chewing on them in hard thought. Pertyc had been wondering
what was on his friend’s mind. Now he was finally hearing.
Ever since the forced joining of the two kingdoms some sixty years
before, there’d been plenty of grumbling in Eldidd, a longing
for independence and past glory simmering like porridge over a slow
fire. Now the fire had flared up; the porridge was beginning to
boil over.
“I’d hoped to come around to this slowly,”
Danry said at last. “But it’s hard to believe
you’d be too blind to see the ale in your own
tankard.”
“I’ve never much liked sour ale. What does it matter
to me if I pledge to a new king or an old one?”
“Perro! It’s the honor of the thing.”
“How are you going to have a rebellion without a king to
rally round? Or have you ferretted out some obscure
heir?”
“That’s a rotten way to speak about him, but we
have.” Danry picked up a leather dog collar from the
cluttered writing desk and began fiddling with the brass buckles.
“The lad is related to the old blood royal twice over on the
female line, and there’s a lass who’s related on the
male line. If we marry them, well, it’s claim enough.
They’re both good Eldidd blood, and that’s the true
thing.” He ran the end of the collar through the buckle and
pulled it tight. “You know, my friend, your claim to the
throne is as good as his.”
“It’s not! I don’t have a claim at all. None,
do you hear me? My most honorable ancestor abdicated; I’m
descended from his common-born wife, and that’s that! No
priest in the kingdom would back a claim on my part, and you know
it.”
“There are ways of handling priests.” Danry tossed
the collar aside. “But you’re right, no doubt. I was
just thinking of a thing or two.”
“Listen, even jackals pull down the kill before they start
squabbling over the meat.”
Danry winced.
“When I came to my manhood,” Pertyc went on,
“I swore an oath to King Aeryc to serve him well, serve him
faithfully, and put his life above my own. Seems to me I heard you
and the rest of our friends swear one like it, too.”
“Ah, by the hells! No oath is binding when it’s
sworn under coercion.”
“No one held a sword to my throat. I didn’t see one
at yours, either.”
With a curse, Danry heaved himself up from the table and began
trying to pace round the cluttered chamber.
“The coercion lies in the past. They stripped Eldidd of
its rights and its independence under threat of open slaughter.
It’s the honor of the thing, Perro.”
“If I break an oath, I don’t have any honor left
worth fighting over.” Idly Pertyc touched the device on his
shirt.
“Ah, curse your horseshit Badgers! If you don’t come
in with us, what then? Are you going to run to this false king with
the tale?”
“Never, and all for your sake. Do you think I’d put
my sworn friend’s neck in a noose? I’d die
first.”
Danry sighed, looking away.
“I wish you’d stay out, too.” Pertyc said.
“And I’d die before I’d do that. You can
trumpet your neutrality to the four corners of the world, but
you’re still going to be in the middle of it. What do you
think we’re going to do, muster our warbands right down in
Aberwyn? When the spring comes, we’re meeting in the forest,
here in the west.”
“You scummy bastards!”
Danry laughed, tossing his head back and giving him a friendly
slap on the shoulder.
“We’ll do our best not to disturb his lordship or
trample his kitchen garden. Now here, spring’s a long way
away. I have faith you’ll be mustering with us when the time
comes. It might be dangerous if you didn’t. You know
I’d never lift my hand against your dun and kin, but, well,
as for the others . . . ” He let the words trail
significantly away.
“Neutrals have found themselves stripped and sieged
before, huh? You’re right enough. You tell our friends that
I’ll protect my lands to my last breath, whether they claim
to have a king on their side or not.”
“They wouldn’t expect any less from you. I warn you,
though, when we win this fight, you can’t expect much honor
or standing in the new kingdom.”
“I’ll take my chances on that. I’d rather die
a beggar than break my sworn oath.” Pertyc smiled faintly.
“And the word, my friend, isn’t ‘when’ you
win. It’s ‘if.’”
Danry turned red, a hectic flush of rage across his cheeks.
Pertyc held his gaze until Danry forced out a smile.
“Let us give the gods their due,” Danry said.
“Who knows where a man’s Wyrd will lead him? Very well.
‘If’ it is.”
Pertyc walked outside with Danry to the ward, where his horse
was standing saddled and ready at the gates. Danry mounted, said a
pleasant and normal farewell, then trotted down the road to the
north. As Pertyc watched the dun disappearing, he felt danger like
a cold ache in his stomach. The dolts, he thought, and maybe
I’m the biggest dolt of all! He turned and looked over his
dun, a small, squat broch standing inside a timber-laced wall
without ramparts or barbicans. Although his demesne was continually
short on coin, he decided it would be wise to spend what he had on
fortifications, even if he could only afford to build some
earthworks and ditches. Whatever else it may have lacked, his dun
had the best watchtower in the kingdom for the Cannobaen light,
where every night a beacon burned to warn passing ships of where
submerged rocks just off the coast. If the rebellion swept a siege
his way, it occurred to Pertyc, he could perhaps parlay keeping the
light into a reason for keeping his neutrality. Perhaps. The dread
in his stomach turned to burning ice.
Later that same day, he was drinking in his great hall when a
page came with the news that there was a silver dagger at the
gates. Since he had only ten men in his warband, he had Maer shown
in straightaway.
“I’ll take you on, silver dagger. I don’t know
when we’ll see action, but another man might come in handy.
Your keep, and if there’s fighting, a silver piece a
week.”
“My thanks, my lord. Winter’s coming on, and the
roof over my head’s going to be welcome.”
“Good. Uh, Maer? If you shave that mustache off,
it’ll grow in thicker next time, you know.”
Maer drew himself up to his full height.
“Is his lordship suggesting or ordering?”
“Merely suggesting. No offense intended.”
Pertyc turned him over to his captain, then went up to the
women’s hall, a comfortable sunny room that covered half the
second story of the tower. It was the domain of his
lordship’s old nurse, Maudda, all stooped back and long white
hair these days, but still doing her best to serve the clan by
tending Pertyc’s four-year-old daughter, Becyla. Pertyc felt
very bad about keeping the old woman working, but there was, quite
simply, no one else who could handle the lass. As headstrong as her
mother, he thought, then winced at the very mental mention of his
absent wife. He found them sitting in a patch of sun by the window,
Becyla in a chair, Maudda standing behind, keeping up a running
flow of chatter as she combed the lass’s hair, but as soon as
Pertyc stepped in, Becyla twisted free and rushed to her
father.
“Da, Da, I want to go riding. Please, Da,
please?”
“In a bit, my sweet.”
“Now!” She tossed back her head and howled in
rage.
“Stop that! You’re upsetting poor Maudda.”
With a visible wrench of will she fell silent, turning to look
at her beloved nurse. She was a beautiful child, Becyla, with her
moonbeam-pale hair and enormous gray eyes, tall and slender for her
age and as graceful as a fawn when she moved.
“Now, lambkin,” Maudda said. “You’ll go
riding soon enough. Your da’s the lord, you see, and we all
must do what he says. The gods made him a lord, and
we—”
“Horseshit!” She stamped her foot. “But
I’ll be good if you say so.”
With a sigh and a watery smile, Maudda held out her arms, and
Becyla ran to her. I’ve got to get the poor old dear some
help, Pertyc told himself. He had this thought with the same
tedious regularity with which he first enlisted young nursemaids,
then watched them retreat.
“Maudda, I wanted your advice on somewhat,” he said
aloud. “I’ve been thinking about my son. Do you think
my cousin would take it amiss if I rode to his dun and fetched
Adraegyn home for the winter?”
“Ah. You’ve been hearing them rumors of trouble,
then.”
“Ye gods, do you know everything?”
“Everything that matters, my lord.”
“Please, Da, go get him,” Becyla put in. “I
miss Draego.”
“No doubt you do,” Pertyc said. “I think it
might be best all round if he came home. I can train him myself, if
it comes to that.”
“Da?” Becyla broke in. “I want to go with
you.”
“You can’t, my sweet. Young ladies don’t go
riding round the countryside like silver daggers.”
“I want to go!”
“I said you can’t.”
“I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what
your dumb gods say, either. I don’t want to be a lady. I want
to go riding. I want to go with you when you get Draego.”
With a shriek she threw herself down on the floor and began to
kick.
“If I may be so bold, my lord?” Maudda pitched her
voice loud over the general noise. “Do get out and leave her
to me.”
Pertyc fled the field. He was beginning to wish he’d done
what his wife wanted and let her take his daughter away with her.
He’d refused only out of a stubborn honor. He could only
thank the gods for making Adraegyn a reasonable and fairly human
being.
“Now, you know who does have a little cottage,”
Samwna said thoughtfully. “Wersyn the merchant. He had it
built for his mother, you see, when she was widowed, but the poor
lady passed to the Otherlands just this spring. No surprise, truly,
because she was seventy winters if she was a day old. She always
said sixty-four, but hah! you can tell those things, good sir. But
anyway, it’s a nice stout little place with a big
hearth.”
“Does it have a bit of land around it?”
“Oh, it does, because she liked her flowers and suchlike.
Besides, it had to be a good stone’s throw away from
Wergyn’s house. Moligga—that’s his wife—put
her foot down about that, and I can’t say I blame her,
because old Bwdda was the nosy type, always lifting the lids of her
daughter-in-law’s pots, if you take my meaning, good
sir.”
Nevyn began to remember why he normally avoided small towns.
On the other hand, the cottage turned out to be both suitable
and cheap, and he rented it immediately, then spent the rest of the
day unpacking and settling in. On the morrow, he decided that while
he’d keep his riding horse, the mule would only be a
nuisance. Samwna, that font of all local information, told him to
try selling it to a farmer named Nalyn.
“He lives out near Lord Pertyc’s dun. He married the
farm, you see, or I should say, it still belongs to poor dear
Myna—she was widowed so young, poor thing, and her with two
daughters to raise on her own—but now one of the daughters is
married. Lidyan, that is, and it’s good for them to have a
man to work the fields again, I must say, so it’s
Nalyn’s farm in a way, like.”
Nevyn made his escape at last and rode out, with the mule on a
tether rope, and found the farm. When Nevyn dismounted near the
shabby thatched roundhouse, he could hear someone yelling inside. A
man’s voice, thick with rage, drifted out, followed by the
sound of a woman weeping and pleading. Ye gods, he thought, does
this Nalyn beat his poor wife? A second woman’s voice yelled
back, cracking in a string of curses. A young heavyset man came
stalking out of the house. Just as he took a step out of the
doorway, an egg came sailing after him, caught him on the back of
the head, and shattered. With an oath, the man started to turn back
in, then saw Nevyn.
“My apologies,” Nevyn said. “I just heard in
the village you might want to buy a mule. I can come back
later.”
“No need.” The young farmer was busily trying to get
the egg off the back of his head with both hands. “I do
indeed need a mule, though my sister’s stubborn enough for a
whole rotten herd of them. Let me just wash this off at the
well.”
Laughter rang in the doorway, and a young woman, about
Maer’s age, came strolling out. She was pretty, raven-haired
and blue-eyed, but not truly beautiful, with her hair cropped off
short in the way many farm women wore their hair, out of the way of
hard work. Her dress was dirty, much mended, and hitched up around
her waist at the kirtle to leave her ankles and feet bare.
“And who’s this, Nalyn? Another of your candidates
for my betrothal?”
“Hold your cursed tongue, Glae!” Nalyn snapped.
“He’s better-looking than Doclyn, aged or not. No
offense, good sir, but my beloved brother-in-law is bound and
determined to marry me off to get rid of me, you see. Are you in
the market for a young wife, by any chance?”
“Glae!” Nalyn howled. “I said hold your
tongue!”
“Don’t give me orders, you afterbirth of a
miscarried wormy sow.”
With an anguished glance in Nevyn’s direction Nalyn walked
off to the well to wash away the egg. The lass leaned comfortably
against the doorjamb and gave Nevyn a brilliant smile that
transformed her face for one brief moment. Then she was merely
wary, and plain, her eyes too suspicious and cold for beauty.
“Here, good sir, I haven’t even asked your name.
Mine’s Glaenara. You must’ve been talking with the
village women if you knew we were in the market for a
mule.”
“Well, I did happen to speak with Samwna. My name is
Nevyn, and that’s a name, not a jest.”
“Indeed? Well, then, Lord Nobody, welcome to our humble
farm. Samwna’s a good woman, isn’t she? And her
daughter Braedda’s my best friend. As meek as a suckling
lamb, but I do like her.”
Glaenara ran her hands down the mule’s legs, thumped it on
the chest, then grabbed its head and pried its mouth open to look
at its teeth before the startled mule could even object. His wet
shirt in his hand, Nalyn came back and watched sourly.
“Now, I’m the one who’s saying if we buy that
mule or not.”
“Then take a look at its mouth yourself.”
When Nalyn went to do so, the by now wary mule promptly bit him
on the arm. Howling with laughter, Glaenara cuffed the mule so hard
that it let go. Nevyn grabbed Nalyn’s arm and looked at it:
mule bites could turn nasty, but fortunately, this one hadn’t
broken the skin. Nalyn was cursing a steady stream under his
breath.
“Just bruised, I’d say,” Nevyn said
soothingly. “My apologies.”
“Wasn’t you,” Nalyn growled. “Glae,
I’m going to beat you so hard one of these days.”
“Just try.” Glaenara set her hands on her hips and
smiled at him.
At that, the other two women came running out of the house.
Glaenara’s mother was gray and thin, her face drawn and
etched deep with exhausted lines. Her sister was pretty, with less
strength but more harmony in her wide-eyed face. Sniveling, the
sister caught her husband’s arm and looked up, pleading with
him silently. The mother turned to Glaenara.
“Glae, please? Not in front of a stranger.”
With a sigh, Glaenara turned tame, coming over to slip her arm
around her mother’s frail waist and give her a kiss on the
cheek. Nalyn patted his wife’s arm, looked Nevyn’s way,
and blushed again. For a moment they all stood there in a miserable
tableau; then Glaenara led her mother back to the house. With one
backward glance at Nevyn, the sister hurried after.
“My apologies for my little sister,” Nalyn said.
“My good sir, no man in his right mind would hold you
responsible for anything that lass does.”
As he was riding back to the village, Nevyn met Lord
Pertyc’s warband, coming two abreast in a cloud of dust. At
the head rode the lord himself, a tall but slender man who reminded
him strikingly of Prince Mael, his distant ancestor, with his
raven-haired Eldidd good looks and heavy-lidded dark blue eyes.
Beside him on a gray pony was a young lad of about eight, so much
like the lord that Nevyn assumed it was his son. As they passed,
Pertyc gave Nevyn a wave and a nod; Nevyn bowed gravely. Behind
came ten men with badgers painted on their shields. At the very
rear, riding alone in the dust but grinning as cheerfully as ever,
was Maer. When he saw Nevyn, he waved.
“I’ve got myself a nice warm spot in a
badger’s hole. You brought me good luck, Nevyn.”
“Good, good! I’ve settled into the village. No doubt
we’ll see each other from time to time.”
“You know what?” Adraegyn said.
“I don’t,” Maer said. “What?”
“Da says he wants to hire more silver daggers if he can
find them.”
“Does he now? Do you know why?”
“I’ll wager there’s going to be a war. Why
else would he come fetch me back from Cousin
Macco’s?”
“No doubt you’re right, truly.”
Adraegyn considered him for a moment. He was perched on the edge
of the watering trough and watching while Maer cleaned his tack.
Maer enjoyed the young lordling’s company; as the eldest of a
family of seven, he was used to having children tagging after
him.
“Do you have to polish that dagger a lot? Silver plates
and stuff get dirty truly fast.”
“So they do. But the dagger’s different. It’s
not entirely made of silver, you see.”
“Can I look at it? Or is that rude to ask?”
“You can look at mine, but never ask another silver
dagger, all right? Most of us are a bit touchy about it. Now be
careful. It’s as sharp as the Lord of Hell’s front
tooth.”
Grinning, Adraegyn took the dagger and hefted it, then risked a
gingerly touch on the blade with the ball of his thumb.
“Have you ever slain a man with this dagger?”
“I haven’t, but then, I haven’t had it very
long. Maybe I’ll get my chance if your father rides to
war.”
“I wish I could go, but I’m still learning
stuff.” Adraegyn sighed dramatically. “And I’ve
got to waste all this time learning to read.”
“Truly? Now that’s a strange thing. Why?”
“Da says I have to. All the men in our clan learn to read.
It’s one of the things that makes us Maelwaedds.”
In a few minutes the Maelwaedd himself came strolling over to
lean on the watering trough beside his son.
“It’s always pleasant to see another man
work,” Pertyc said. “Odd, but there you have
it.”
“So it is, my lord. Sometimes I’d be traveling and
stop to watch some poor bastard of a farmer slaving out in the
fields, just to be watching him.”
“Just so. Here, Draego, what are you doing with
Maer’s silver dagger?”
“He let me look at it, Da. That’s all.”
“Careful—those things are blasted sharp.”
“I know, Da!” Somewhat reluctantly, Adraegyn handed
the dagger back to Maer. “Da, I want to go riding. Can I take
my pony down to the village?”
“By all means. Or here.” Pertyc hesistated for a
moment. “Maer, go with him, will you? You can use some of the
spare tack while yours is drying.”
“Done, my lord.” Maer looked up sharply. “Do
you think there might be trouble?”
“The world’s as full of trouble as the sea is full
of fish. I don’t think anything just yet, but listen, Draego,
from now on, when you want to leave the dun, you tell me first and
take one of the men with you.”
“Why? I never used to have to.”
“Do as I say and hold your tongue about it. I’ll
tell you more when there’s more to tell.”
There was a fair amount of activity down in Cannobaen that
afternoon, because it was market day. Most of the farmers and
craftsmen had their goods spread out on blankets on the ground,
though the weaver and local blacksmith did have little stalls. As
Maer and Adraegyn strolled around, the lad would stop every now and
then and ask a villager how his wife was doing or if his children
were well, and he managed to remember everyone’s name in a
most impressive manner. At the edge of the market, a young woman
was sitting behind baskets of eggs. Maer was immediately struck by
her. Although she wasn’t beautiful, she was handsome, with a
slightly malicious touch to her grin and life sparkling in her blue
eyes.
“Who’s that, my lord?” Maer pointed her
out.
“Oh, that’s Glae. She and her kin have the farm next
to our demesne.”
Maer guided the lad over to Glae and her baskets. Tied up behind
her was a mule.
“Good morrow, Glae,” Adraegyn said to her.
“Good morrow, my lord. Come down for a look at your
market?”
“I have.” Adraegyn waved at Maer. “This is
Maer. He’s my bodyguard now.”
“Oh, is he?” Glae gave Maer a cool appraisal.
“And a silver dagger at that.”
“I am.” Maer made her a half bow. “But I beg
and pray that you won’t think the less of me for
it.”
“Since I think naught of you one way or the other, I can
hardly think less of you, can I now?”
Maer opened his mouth and shut it again, suddenly at a loss for
words.
“You’ve got a new mule, I see,” Adraegyn
said.
“We do, my lord. We bought it from the new herbman in
town.”
“There’s someone new in town?” Adraegyn was
openly delighted. “Where does he live?”
“In the cottage by Wersyn’s house. And he seems a
wise old man indeed, from what Braedda tells me.”
“Come on, Maer. Let’s go meet him. Maybe he’s
a dweomerman or suchlike.”
“Oh, now here,” Maer said, grinning. “You do
have a taste for the bard’s fancies, don’t
you?”
“Well, you never know. Good morrow, Glae. I hope you sell
a lot of eggs. Come on now, Maer. Let’s go.”
Maer made Glae one last bow, which she acknowledged with a flick
of her eyes, then hurried after his half-sized commander.
They found Nevyn out in the garden in front of his cottage,
digging up a flower bed as vigorously as a man a third of his age.
Adraegyn hailed him, leaned on the fence, then gasped in sudden
delight.
“Oh, your garden’s full of Wildfolk! They’re
all dancing round and round.”
Nevyn grunted in sharp surprise. Maer started to laugh, then
choked it back for fear of hurting the lad’s
feelings—he was already blushing scarlet at his lapse.
“I mean, uh, I’m sorry, I mean, I know there
aren’t really Wildfolk . . . ”
“What?” Nevyn’s voice was perfectly mild.
“Of course there are Wildfolk. And you were quite right the
first time. My garden’s full of them.”
It was nice of the old man, Maer thought, to help the lad over
his awkward moment with a little lie. Adraegyn was beaming up at
Nevyn.
“You see them, too? Truly?”
“I do.”
Adraegyn spun around to consider Maer.
“And you must, too. You can tell us, Maer. We all
do.”
“What, my lord?”
“Well, come on. That big blue sprite follows you all over,
you know. She must like you. Don’t you see her?”
For the second time that afternoon, Maer found himself
speechless. He stared openmouthed while an awkward silence grew
painful.
“My lord,” Nevyn said gently. “Sometimes the
Wildfolk take a liking to someone for reasons of their own. I
don’t think Maer does see her, or any of them, for that
matter. Do you, Maer?”
“I don’t, truly.”
“Now tell me, Maer. Can you see the wind?”
“What? Of course not! No one can see the wind.”
“Just so. But it’s real enough.”
For the briefest of moments Maer found himself wavering. Did
Adraegyn and old Nevyn really see Wildfolk? Did those fabled little
creatures actually exist? Oh, don’t be a stupid dolt! he told
himself. Of course they don’t!
Later, when they rode back to the dun, Lord Pertyc happened to
be walking across the ward just as they trotted in the gates. A
servant came running to take Adraegyn’s horse. As soon as he
was down, the lad ran, dodging away from his father’s
affectionate hand and racing for the shelter of the broch.
“Somewhat wrong?” Pertyc said to Maer.
“Uh, well, my lord, your lad wanted to go meet the new
herbman in town, so I took him, but truly, I wonder if the old
man’s daft.”
“Daft? Did he scare the lad or suchlike?”
“Not at all, but he scared me. Here, my lord, I
don’t mean to open old wounds or suchlike, but does young
Adraegyn talk about the Wildfolk a lot?”
“Oh, that!” Pertyc smiled in open relief.
“That’s all, was it? Did the herbman tease him about
it? Well, no doubt the fellow was startled to hear a lad his age
still babbling about Wildfolk.”
“Er, not exactly, my lord. The old man says he can see
them too.”
Late on the morrow morn, Nevyn was working out in back, planting
a few quick-growing herbs and hoping that they would reach a decent
size before the days turned short, when he heard a horseman riding
up to the cottage. Trowel in hand, he hurried round and saw Lord
Pertyc dismounting at the front gate.
“Good morrow, my lord. To what do I owe this honor of a
visit? I hope no one’s ill at your dun.”
“Oh, thanks be to holy Sebanna, we’re all healthy
enough. Just thought I’d have a chat, since you’re new
here and all.”
Nevyn stuck the trowel in his belt and swung open the gate.
Pertyc followed him in, looking wide-eyed round the garden as if he
expected to see spirits leering out from under every bush. The
place was full of spirits, of course, little gray gnomes
sucking their fingers, blue sprites, ratty-haired and long-nosed,
grinning to show pointed teeth, sylphs like airy crystals, darting
this way and that. Inside, near the hearthstone, Wildfolk sat on
the table and the bench and climbed on the shelves full of herbs.
On the table a leather-bound book lay open.
“Ye gods!” Pertyc said. “That’s my most
illustrious ancestor’s book!”
“One of them, at least. Being here made me think of it.
Have you ever read it?”
“I take it on, every now and then. When every Maelwaedd
man comes of age, his father tells him to read the Ethics.
So you plow through a bit, and then your father admits that he
could never finish the wretched thing, either, and you know
you’re truly a man among men.”
“I see. Won’t you honor me by sitting down, my lord?
I can fetch you some ale.”
“Oh, no need.” Pertyc had an anxious eye for the
shelves of strange herbs and drugs. “Can’t stay more
than a minute, truly. Er, well, you see, there was somewhat I
wanted to ask you about.”
“The Wildfolk? I figured that Maer would tell you about
what happened.”
“He did indeed. Um, you were just humoring my lad,
weren’t you?”
A yellow gnome reached over and closed the book with a little
puff of dust. Pertyc yelped.
“I wasn’t, actually.” Nevyn said. “Does
his lordship truly doubt that young Adraegyn can see the
Wildfolk?”
“Well I can’t say that I do, but I like to keep it
in the family, you know.”
“Ah. I take it that his lordship’s wife is a woman
of the Westfolk.”
“Well, she was.”
“My apologies, my lord. I didn’t realize that
she’d ridding through the gates of the Otherlands.”
“Naught of the sort, if you mean did she die.” A
tone of injured pride crept into Pertyc’s voice. “As
far as I know, anyway, she’s alive and well and no doubt as
nasty and wrong-minded as she ever was. I suppose I’m being
unfair. I don’t know how I ever thought she could live in a
dun and be the proper wife of a noble lord, but by all the ice in
all the hells, she might have tried!”
“I see.” Nevyn suppressed a grin. “I take it
that you didn’t stand in her way when she decided to
leave.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered one jot if I’d gone
down on my knees and begged her to stay.” All at once he
turned faintly pink. “But why I’m burdening your ears
with all of this, I don’t know. You seem to be an easy man to
talk to, Nevyn.”
“My thanks, my lord. It’s a valuable thing in a
herbman, being easy to talk to.”
“No doubt. Herbman, huh? Is that all you are?”
“And what else would my lordship think I am?”
“Now, I know that most men would mock the dweomer, good
sir, but we Maelwaedd’s don’t. There’s bits and
pieces about it in Prince Mael’s books, for one thing, and
well, we pass the lore along. We’re like badgers, truly. We
hold on.”
“Even to your oath to a foreign king?”
Lord Pertyc’s face went dead white. Nevyn smiled, thinking
that this exercise in logic must seem an act of magic.
“We do,” Pertyc said at last. “Aeryc’s
the king I swore to serve, and serve him I will.”
“With only ten men, it’s going to be hard to stand
against the king’s enemies.”
“I know. A badger can tear one boarhound to pieces, but
the pack will get him in the end. But a vow’s a vow, and
that’s that. They just might honor my neutrality, or so I can
hope, anyway.” All at once his lordship grinned.
“Besides, I’ve already hired one silver dagger, so
I’ve actually got eleven men now. Maybe more will ride my
way.”
“That reminds, my lord. Do you know why the silver daggers
never ride together as a troop, the way they did in the old
days?”
“Well, one of the kings forbade them to. I suppose they
were too dangerous. The kingmakers—that’s what they
were called, you know. A warband that’s made a king can
unmake one just as easily.” Pertyc frowned, remembering
something. “Let’s see, in this book I have at home it
says that after the civil wars all the free troops were banned.
That’s right, I remember now. It was Maryn’s son. His
councillors wanted him to ban the silver daggers, too, but he
refused, because of the service they’d paid his father. But
he didn’t want an independent army riding round causing
trouble, either, so he ruled that they could only hire out as one
man or two together.”
“Ah, I see. Well, too bad in a way. You could hire them if
only they still existed, eh? But then, maybe this rebellion will
stay in Aberwyn.”
Pertyc looked away so fast that Nevyn knew that he had
information to the contrary.
“There are times when trouble spreads like fire in dry
grass,” Nevyn said. “No one knows which way the wind
will blow.”
“Just so. Well, no doubt I’m keeping you from your
work. Good day.”
All summer, Glaenara had been curing cheeses in round wooden
molds. When the four biggest wheels were ready, she loaded them
onto the mule and took them to Lord Pertyc’s dun as part of
their taxes. Since it was drowsy-hot, she went barefoot, saving the
leather of her one pair of shoes for the winter. Although Nalyn
kept urging her to get some boots made down in the village, she
preferred to scant herself rather than take what she thought of as
his charity. Until Nalyn appeared, Glaenara had been the strong one
in the family, keeping up her mother and sister’s spirits
after her father died, working harder than most lads to scrape a
subsistence living out of their farm. Just when I’m old
enough to plow like a man, he comes strolling in, she thought
bitterly. But there was no doubt that Mam and Lida were happier
now. Perhaps that was the worst blow of all.
The gates to Dun Cannobaen stood open, and the ward was its
usual slow confusion—servants strolling about their tasks,
the riders sitting out in the sun dicing for coppers, Lord Pertyc
himself lounging on the steps with a tankard of ale. Glaenara
dropped him a curtsy, which he acknowledged by getting up. Although
she considered herself a world below him, Glaenara was fond of her
local lord because he was a kind man, and his unfortunate marriage
had given everyone something exciting to talk about for years now.
Rulers have been loved, after all, for a good deal less.
“Looks like cheese,” Pertyc said. “What kind,
yellow or white?”
“Yellow, my lord. It’s awfully good.”
Pertyc set his tankard down and drew his dagger to cut himself
off a slice. When he took a bite, he nodded in satisfaction.
“So it is. Goes well with ale, an important thing round
here, truly.”
Pertyc cut himself another, thicker slice, retrieved is ale, and
returned to his steps. Glaenara led the mule round back to the
kitchen door and began unloading the cheese. She’d just swung
two wheels out when Maer the silver dagger came running up and made
her a low bow.
“Now here, fair maid, those look heavy. Let me carry them
for you.”
“Not heavy at all. Only twenty pound each.”
Maer, however, insisted on hefting three and leaving her only
one to carry into the kitchen. As he laid his wheels down on the
long wooden table, it occurred to Glaenara that he was trying to be
polite to her. The idea came as a surprise.
“Well, my thanks,” she said.
“Oh, I’d pay you any service gladly.”
Another surprise: he was flirting with her. Caught off guard,
Glaenara turned away and began talking with the cook, an old friend
of her mother’s, leaving Maer to hover helplessly in the
doorway. She was hoping that he would just go away, but he waited
until she and the cook were done with their chat. As she was
leaving, Maer grabbed the mule’s lead rope and led him to the
gates for her.
“Truly, it was good to see you,” Maer said.
“Was it? Why?”
“Well, uh.” Maer began fiddling with the end of the
lead rope. “Well, it’s always good to see a pretty
lass, truly. Especially one with spirit.”
Glaenara snorted and grabbed the rope back from him.
“My thanks for helping me haul the cheese. I’ve got
to get back to my work.”
“Can I walk with you a ways?”
“You can’t. Or . . . wait a minute. You said
you’d pay me a service?”
“I will. Just name it.”
“Then shave that beastly mustache off. It makes your face
look dirty and naught more.”
Maer howled, clapping a hand over his upper lip in self-defense.
Glae marched away, sure that she’d seen the last of him. Yet
that very afternoon, she was taking a couple of buckets of
vegetable scraps out to the hogs when she saw him leading his horse
in through the gates. She stopped and stared; the mustache was
gone, sure enough. Nalyn came strolling over with a hoe in his
hands and gave Maer a cold looking-over.
“Good morrow, sir,” Maer said. “I was wanting
to speak to Glaenara, you see.”
“Oh, were you now? And just what do you want with my
sister?”
“And what’s it to you who I talk with?”
Glaenara snapped.
“Now hold your tongue. I just want to get a look at a man
who comes courting you with a silver dagger in his belt.”
“Now here!” Maer put it, but feebly.
“I’ve got honorable intentions, I assure
you.”
Nalyn and Glaenara both ignored him and turned to glare at each
other.
“You’re too young to judge a man,” Nalyn
snarled. “I’ve had the experience to know a rotten
apple from a sound one.”
“Who are you calling rotten?”
“No one—yet. Maybe I’m only married kin, but
I’m the only brother you’ve got, and cursed if
I’ll let you hang about talking with silver daggers and other
scum of the road.”
“Don’t you call Maer scum! I won’t stand for
it.”
“Oh, won’t you now?” Nalyn said with a smug
little grin. “And how do you know his name, and how come
you’re so quick to defend him?”
Glaenara grabbed one of her buckets of pig slops, swung, and
emptied it over Nalyn’s head.
“I’ll talk to who I want to!”
Predictably, the noise brough Lidyan running—and shrieking
at the sight of her husband covered with carrot peels and radish
leaves. Maer doubled over laughing.
“Flowers to the fair,” Maer choked out. “And
slops to the hogs. Ye gods, you’ve got a good hand with the
bucket. He should be glad you weren’t sweeping out the cow
barn!”
A piece of carrot peel had flown his way and stuck to his shirt.
He plucked it off and handed it to Glaenara with a courtly bow.
“A small token of my esteem. Now I’d best get out of
here before your brother takes a hoe to me.”
“Brother-in-law, that’s all. And don’t you
forget it.”
The next time Glaenara went to market, she sold all her cheese
and eggs early in the day, then went over to the inn. As she was
tying up the mule out back, Braedda, Samwna’s pretty blond
daughter, came running out to catch Glaenara’s arm and lean
close like a conspirator. They were exactly the same age, although
Braedda looked younger, just because her hands were soft and her
face had been spare the rough winds of the fields.
“Ganedd and his father got home last night,” Braedda
said, giggling.
“Oh, wonderful! Is your father going to ask about the
betrothal?”
“He’s going over this evening, right after dinner.
Oh, Glae, I can hardly wait! I want to marry Ganno so
bad.”
Out in the back of the stables was a shed, filled with sacks of
milled oats and tied shocks of hay. Glaenara and Braedda went
there, as they usually did, to talk out of the hearing of her
parents. They’d barely started their gossip, though, when
Ganedd himself appeared, opening the door without knocking. He was
a tall lad, filling out to a man built more like a warrior than a
merchant, with pale blue eyes and golden hair, a sign that
somewhere in his clan’s history was some Deverry blood.
“I’d best go,” Glaenara said.
“I’ll be in for the market next week, Brae.”
Ganedd smiled briefly, then gallantly opened the door for her.
As she led the mule out of the village, Glaenara was wishing she
felt less jealous of her friend’s good fortune. Although she
rather disliked Ganedd, he was a far better catch than any man that
was likely to come courting her. Just as she was turning into the
road, she happened across Nevyn, riding in. He made her a bow from
the saddle, surprisingly limber for one who looked so old.
“In for the market, were you?”
“I was, sir. And a good day to you.”
He smiled, then suddenly leaned forward, staring into her eyes.
For a moment she felt as if she’d been turned to stone and
his cold gaze was a chisel, slicing into her soul; then he released
her with a small nod.
“And a good day to you, lass. Oh, wait, I just thought of
somewhat. Would you like to earn four coppers a week, doing my
laundry and sweeping out my cottage and suchlike?”
“I would indeed.”
“Splendid! Then come in tomorrow, because I’m afraid
I’ve let things pile up a bit. After this, two mornings a
week should do it.”
“Well and good, then. I’ll be in before
noon.”
As he rode his way, Nevyn was thinking of the strange vagaries
of Wyrd. The last time he’d known this woman, she’d
been queen of all Deverry and the virtual regent of Cerrmor while
her royal husband was on campaign. The oddest thing of all, though,
wasn’t the obvious change in her fortunes; it was that
he’d pitied her even more when she’d been queen.
Out in the paddock behind the merchant’s big wooden house,
twelve Western Hunter colts nibbled at the grass or stood drowsing
head down in the warm sun, blood bays and chestnuts, mostly, but
off to one side was a perfect strawberry roan, Ganedd’s
favorite. When he leaned on the fence, the roan came over to have
his ears scratched.
“I’m thinking of giving that colt to the gwerbret in
Aberwyn,” Wersyn said. “It’s been a while since
I’ve given his grace a token of our esteem.”
“This lad will make a good warhorse, truly.”
“Just so. You know, I think I’ll let you be the one
to deliver him to his grace. It’s time he knew your name as
my heir.”
“Uh, well, Da, I’ve been thinking,
and . . . ”
“You’re not going to sea! I’m sick to death of
having this discussion. You’re my son, and we deal in horses,
and that’s that.”
“You’ve got Avyl! He’s your son, too,
isn’t he? He’ll make a fine horse trader! You say so
yourself.”
“You’re the eldest son, and that’s
that.”
Wersyn had his arms crossed over his chest, a sure sign that
arguing was futile. Ganedd turned on his heel and stalked off in
the direction of town. At times he wished that he had the guts to
just run away. If he could only find a merchant captain who
wouldn’t mind offending his father . . . but that was worse
than unlikely down in Aberwyn, where Wersyn was an important man in
the guild. His aimless walk brought him to his grandmother’s
cottage and the new herbman in town, who was grubbing away in the
garden. When Ganedd leaned on the fence to watch, the old man
straightened up, wiped his hands on a bit of rag, then strolled
over to say good morrow.
“And does the cottage suit you, sir?” Ganedd said.
“If it needs repair, I can try to set things
right.”
“Good of you, lad, but so far, everything’s just
fine. I hear you and your father are going to Aberwyn
soon.”
“Tomorrow morning, actually, with the dawn. We’ve
got some tribute to pay to Gwerbret Aberwyn, and then there’s
going to be a big meeting of the merchant guild.”
“Interesting. What about?”
“I’m not allowed to discuss it, sir, with someone
who isn’t in the guild.”
“All right, then. I’ll wager you enjoy going to
Aberwyn, though.”
“Oh, I certainly do! Ye gods, life is so beastly boring
here in Cannobaen.”
“No doubt, but don’t you go with your father when he
trades with the Westfolk?”
“Of course, but so what? They’re just the
Westfolk.”
“Ah. I see.”
And Ganedd was left with the infuriating feeling that the old
man was doing his best not to laugh at him.
That very evening their two fathers arranged the wedding pact,
but the formalities of life demanded that Braedda’s father
come ask Lord Pertyc’s permission to formalize the betrothal
of his daughter to Ganedd the merchant’s son. Technically,
Wersyn should have come with him, but he was already on his way to
Aberwyn with his son and the loan of his lordship’s silver
dagger as well, for a guard. Pertyc approved the betrothal, stood
the man a goblet of mead in celebration, then sent him on his way
with his best wishes. The innkeep was only a few hours gone when
Tieryn Danry turned up at Pertyc’s gates with an escort of
ten men.
All that afternoon, while they drank together in the great hall
and talked idly about everything but the rebellion, Pertyc was
aware of Danry studying him like a tactical problem. Over breakfast
the next day, when Danry suggested that they go hunting alone
rather than organizing a full-scale stag hunt, Pertyc felt a
confrontation coming, but he agreed simply to have it over with.
When they rode out, they took only a lad with a pack mule and some
dogs with them. Danry carried the usual short hunting bow; Pertyc
had a yew longbow, mounted with silver, that had been a wedding
gift from his wife’s brother.
At the edge of the forest, they left the lad with the horses and
went alone on foot to see if they could flush a deer. The dogs, a
pair of the sleek gray breed called gwertrae, were eager, whining
as they sniffed round for tracks and nosed their way through the
bracken and fern. Above them rose the ancient oaks, casting a shade
cold with a hint of winter coming. Pertyc and Danry had hunted
together this way a hundred times, picking their way down narrow
trails as silently as the wild animals they sought. Pertyc found
himself wishing they were both lads again, too young to be troubled
by obligations and vows and the need to ride to war. When at length
they came to a clearing where the sun came down in a long golden
shaft onto the leaf-littered ground, Danry whistled sharply to the
dogs and brought them back to heel.
“They haven’t even found us a trail yet,”
Pertyc said.
Danry turned to him with a faint smile.
“My answer’s still the same,” Pertyc went on.
“I won’t ride with you in the spring.”
“As stubborn as a badger, truly. But I came to tell you
somewhat, and if you love me, then never say where you heard
it.”
“You know I’ll keep silent.”
“Well and good. Then listen, Perro, things are growing
nasty. You were wise to bring your lad home. I’m not the only
man who had thoughts about your claim to the throne. There are some
who’d be glad to put little Draego in your place.”
“They’ll have to kill me to get at the
lad.”
“That’s just what they might do.”
Pertyc went cold, standing in the warm shaft of autumn sun.
“He wouldn’t be the first child to have a throne won
for him by grown men,” Danry said. “Now listen, I
don’t know any more than rumors. No one’s going to
speak honestly of such things in front of me, because they know
you’re my oath-sworn friend. It would be a long sight easier
to stop the talk if you were one of us.”
Pertyc looked away.
“If they come for the lad, how are you going to stop
them?” Danry said. “You can’t afford an army. Ah,
ye gods, I feel torn apart, Perro.”
“Then maybe you should join me and the king.”
Danry winced, shaking his head in honest pain.
“I can’t. My honor would never let me
rest.”
“No more would mine if I joined the rebels. I’ll
warn you somewhat. If your allies decide to try for my lad, then
get ready to watch me die.”
Danry came close to weeping. At his feet, the gwertroedd whined,
dancing a step away, then coming reluctantly back to heel. Far off
in the forests, a bird sang, a flood of defiant melody in the
shadows.
“And if I die, and you live,” Pertyc said slowly,
“I’ll beg you to watch over Adraegyn for me.
He’ll need a faithful dog if he’s surrounded by
wolves.”
Danry nodded his agreement. Pertyc hesitated, considering saying
more, but there was nothing to say. He wanted to have one last day
with his friend when they could pretend that things were as
they’d always been.
“Let’s get on with the hunt, shall we?”
Danry threw up his hand and sent the eager hounds forward. They
coursed slowly through the woods for another hour, neither of them
speaking, the dogs growing sullen and frustrated, until at last the
lead gwertrae stiffened, tossing up its head. An arrow nocked ready
in his bow, Pertyc jogged after until, all at once, they heard a
crash and rustle as a deer broke cover, and the hounds shot forward
as fast as arrows, yapping after a young doe. An arrow whistled:
Danry’s first shot, bouncing off a tree, way too short.
Pertyc fell into his stance, raised his bow, and loosed all in one
smooth motion. The doe reared up and fell, stumbled a few steps,
then fell again as the dogs threw themselves upon her. Drawing his
dagger, Pertyc ran for them, but she was already dead, skewered
neatly through the heart. Shouting, Pertyc kicked the gwertroedd
away. Danry came running, tossing his bow down, and grabbed the
whining hounds by the collars.
“Ye gods, man!” Danry said, grinning.
“You’ve got the best hand with a bow in all of
Eldidd!”
Pertyc merely smiled, thinking that his wife could best him
without half trying. While Dantry was forcing the dogs to lie down
away from the kill, he set his foot against the doe’s neck
and pulled the arrow out with both hands. Unbroken, it was worth
straightening. As he examined the fletching for splits, he was
thinking of his wife, remembering the stories she’d told him
of wars long fought and over. His heart began to pound in a sudden
gruesome hope. When he looked up to find Danry watching him, he
felt as guilty as a caught burglar.
“Perro? I’ll beg you. Please join us.”
“I can’t. I’m too much of a badger, my
friend.”
“Ah, by the hells! Well, so be it.”
Their afternoon was over, the last time they could love each
other without the love turning to nightmare. Pertyc turned away
before he wept.
Late that night, when the rest of the clan was asleep, Pertyc
went up to his study and lit a pair of candles in a silver sconce.
As a draft caught the flames, shadows flew back and forth across
walls and filled his mind with thoughts of winter, his last winter
alive, or so he was counting it. He was determined, though, that
his death would cost his enemies a price as high as he could set
it.
“And would it be true dishonor,” he said to one of
the stag’s heads on the wall, “to bring longbows back
into Eldidd? I’ve always been told so. The question is, do I
give the fart of a two-copper pig about the dishonor? Our rebels,
my cervine friend, are being a good bit more dishonorable with
their wretched plots.”
In the blown shadows the stag’s eyes seemed to move,
pondering his logic; but he never did answer. Pertyc found his
ancestor’s books, actually a collection of treatises, bound
up for the clan in two volumes, stamped with the clan device on the
pale leather covers, and massive things, weighing a good fifteen
pounds each. He propped the second one up on the lectern, lit more
candles, and stood to turn the pages. Touching the book was a
comfort all its own, because it gave him palpable contact with his
history, all those other Maelwaedd lords, going back a hundred
years to the disclaimed prince himself. He doubted, though, that
his clan would live after his own coming death. Once a rebel
faction proclaimed Adraegyn royal, the High King would have to
choice but to kill the boy.
“Ah, stuff the dishonor, then!” he said to the
stag’s head. “They’re murdering my lad, just by
trying to put him on a throne that isn’t his. I’ve got
every right to skewer as many of the miserable bastards as I can
before the end. We’ll see if I can get those merchants to
ride west for me—well, once they get themselves back home,
anyway.”
Then he returned to his reading, which gave him a surprise of
quite another sort.
In the morning, Danry took his leave, riding out at the head of
his escort with a cheery wave of his hand and a jest for his last
farewell. Pertyc had the groom saddle him up a horse, then rode
straight to Nevyn’s cottage. As he walked through the garden,
hot and hushed in the sunlight, Pertyc had the uneasy feeling that
eyes were watching him, but although he peered into every shadow,
he saw nothing but turned earth and growing things. When he
knocked, Nevyn opened the door and ushered him in with a bow.
“Good morrow, my lord. To what do I owe this
honor?”
“Oh, I just wanted a word with you.”
Nevyn smiled, waiting pleasantly. Pertyc glanced around the
room, filled with the rich mingled smell of a hundred herbs and
roots and barks, bitter and sweet, dry and sharp all diffusing
together in the sunlit air.
“I was reading my ancestor’s book last night, you
see, and I came across a most curious passage about the dweomer. It
was in the book of Qualities. Have you read that, by any
chance?”
“I have, but it was a very long time ago.”
“No doubt. Let me refresh your memory about this one bit,
then. The most noble prince was discussing whether dweomer exists,
you see, and he remarks that he once knew a dweomerman.”
“Oh, did he now? I think I begin to recall the
passage.”
“No doubt. It would be a great honor to have one’s
name recorded in a book for me to remember down the long
years.”
Nevyn considered him with a small frown, then suddenly
laughed.
“His lordship has quick wits. He’s most worthy of
his noble ancestor’s name.”
“By the hells! You mean I’ve guessed
right?”
“About what? You don’t really think that I’m
the self-same man that knew Prince Mael, do you?”
“Er, well, it did seem to fantastical to be
true . . . ”
“Indeed.” The old man considered for a moment, as if
he were debating something in his mind. “Here, if you promise
to keep this to yourself, I’ll tell you the truth. The name
of Nevyn is a kind of honorary title, passed down from master to
apprentice just like a lord passes his title to a son. When one
Nevyn grows old and dies, then a new one appears.”
Pertyc felt embarassed as a page caught in some lapse of
etiquette. Nevyn grinned at him in an oddly sly way, as if the old
man had just done something that pleased him mightily.
“And did you come to ask me that, my lord, and naught
more? His lordship seems troubled. Is it all because of the
dweomer?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, good sir. I have so much
on my mind these days.”
“No doubt. So must every lord in Eldidd.”
If it weren’t for Danry, Pertyc would have told the entire
tale to the dweomerman there and then, but his oath-sworn friend
was up to his neck in treason.
“Eldidd is always full of troubles.” Pertyc chose
his words carefully. “Few of them come to much.”
“Those few that do can be deadly.”
“True-spoken. That’s why our Mael listed prudence
among his noble qualities. It pays to be ready for trouble, even if
none comes.”
Nevyn’s eyes seemed to cut through to his soul, as sharp
as a sword thrust.
“I’m well aware that you and your son have a tenuous
claim to the Eldidd throne.”
“I have no claim at all in any true or holy sense of that
word.”
“Qualities such as the true and the holy are held in
general disrespect in most parts of the kingdowm. That’s a
quote from your ancestor’s book. It seems he was farsighted
enough to deserve the name of Seer.”
Pertyc rose, pacing restlessly over to the hearth.
“Let me guess what you’re too honorable to tell
me,” Nevyn went on. “Every friend you have is in this
rebellious muck too deep to get out again, and so you’re
being torn to pieces between your loyalty to them and your loyalty
to the king.”
“How—ah, ye gods, dweomer indeed!”
“Naught of the sort. Mere logic. Let me ask only one
thing: are you going to fight for the king or try and stay
neutral?”
“Neutral, if only the gods will allow. And let me ask you
the same. Are you a king’s man or neutral in this
scrap?”
“I belong to the people of this kingdom, lad, not king nor
lord nor usurper. And that’s all the answer you’re
going to get from me.”
The great guildhall of Aberwyn was hot. Every one of the long
rank of windows help diamond-paned glass—an enormous luxury
but a stifling one as the sun poured through onto the packed crowd.
A hundred men sat solemnly on long benches down on the blue and
gray slate floor, while up on the dais stood a row of carved chairs
filled with the guild officers, all in their ceremonial cloaks of
bright-colored checked wool. At one end of this impressive line,
the guild’s chief scribe snored shamelessly. In his seat down
on the floor, Ganedd wished that he could do the same, but every
time he nodded off, his father elbowed him in the ribs. All
afternoon, the debate raged over the matter of loaning two thousand
silver pieces to the gwerbret of Aberwyn. Although no one ever
mentioned why the gwerbret wanted the coin, the knowledge was as
cloying as the heat, making it hard to think clearly. A successful
rebellion meant freedom from Deverry taxes, freedom from the
Deverry guilds, and a certain heady rush of pride in independence.
Failure, of course, meant losing the money down to the last copper.
After the formal meeting droned to a halt, close to sunset, the
debate continued in private inn chambers or over dinner tables in
wealthy merchant houses. There in whispers among a few men at a
time, rose the simple question: could the gwerbrets win or not?
“And even if they do win, what’s next?” Wersyn
said. “There’s two great gwerbrets in Eldidd and only
one throne. Ye gods, it gives me a headache, thinking about them
turning on each other once the first war is over.”
“Well, we’ve got to start thinking about this kind
of thing, Da,” Ganedd said. “We’re going to vote
on the loan tomorrow.”
“True enough, but you’d better vote the way I tell
you when the time comes.”
They were in their luxurious inn chamber, waiting for two of
Wersyn’s old friends to join him for another private
discussion. Among flagons of Bardek wine a small cold supper was
laid out on a linen-covered table.
“If I’m voting the way you say, can I go down to the
tavern room tonight? No need for me to listen, is there, if
you’re going to make my mind up for me.”
“You nasty little cub.” Wersyn said it without real
rancor. “Just don’t come in staggering drunk until my
guests have gone. Ye gods! Sometimes I wonder where I got a son
like you. Wanting to go to sea! Drinking! Humph!”
Since they were staying in an expensive inn, the tavern room was
big and clean, with glass lanterns hanging every few feet along the
whitewashed walls, but all the serving girls were respectable and
watched over by a paternal tavernman who seemed determined to keep
them that way. Down in one corner, out of the way by the kitchen
door, Ganedd found Maer, drinking ale alone and doing his best to
behave himself.
“Aren’t you going to discuss grave affairs of state
with your da and his friends?”
“I’m not. They won’t listen to me, and it
drives me half mad. This scheme is daft, Maer. They keep talking
about how many riders the rebels can raise when what they need to
be talking about is ships.”
“Huh? What have ships got to do with it?”
“Not you, too! Look, as the king marches south from Dun
Deverry to Cerrmor, what does he find along the way? Loyal vassals,
that’s what, with nice fat demesnes that support big
warbands. Then when he gets to Cerrmor, what does he
find?”
“Ships.” Maer sat up straight and began thinking.
“Ships to deliver all those men to Abernaudd and Aberwyn in
about half the time they could ride.”
“Right. And the rebels don’t have a third of the
galleys they need to stop him.”
“Hum.” Maer thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip.
“Too bad you can’t go for a marine officer, Ganno, on
one of his grace’s galleys. You’ve got the mind for
it.”
“That’s a splendid idea, you know, and one I never
thought of. I wonder . . . but we won’t be in Aberwyn much
longer this trip, so I can’t go ask his grace. What do you
say we go see what kind of lasses work in the taverns closer to the
docks? I nipped some of Da’s coin from his pouch when he
wasn’t looking.”
“Did you now? Well, if you don’t mind me helping you
spend it, I’m on.”
It was well into the third watch when Ganedd came stumbling up
the stairs of the inn. As he let himself into their chambers, he
tripped, falling onto his hands and knees with a curse and a
clatter. Just as he was picking himself up, Wersyn came out of the
bedchamber with a candle lantern in his hand. Ganedd grabbed the
edge of the table to steady himself and forced out a weak
smile.
“I can smell the mead from way over here,” Wersyn
announced. “And a good bit more than mead, I must say. Cheap
perfume, is it?”
“Well, I waited until your guests left, didn’t
I?”
“I suppose I should be thanking the gods for giving you
one little crumb of good sense. Look at you—like a prize
bull, properly bred and twice as sweaty! And you’re drunk,
and you stole from me, and—” He sputtered briefly, then
took a deep breath. “Ye gods, Ganno! Do you know how late it
is? You’ve been out carousing most of the night. And now
you’re going to go staggering into the guildhall, I suppose,
with your eyes as red as a weasel’s, and everyone will know
what you were up to. By the Lord of Hell’s black ass, what
will people think of me for having a son like you?”
Wersyn strode back into his bedchamber. When he slammed the door
behind him and his candle, the reception chamber went dark.
Stumbling over furniture, Ganedd found his way to his own
bedchamber, fell down on the bed fully dressed, and passed out.
But he woke in the morning in a sullen temper. During breakfast,
which he could barely eat, he had difficulty looking at his father,
who prattled on about lower taxes as if the rebellion were already
won.
“Now remember what I said about the vote this
morning,” Wersyn announced finally.
Ganedd tried to swallow a spoonful of barley porridge, then
shoved the bowl away as a bad job.
“The loan’s going through no matter what we think
about it,” Wersyn continued. “So when it comes to the
vote, we’re giving our approval too.”
Ganedd started to argue, then got up and rushed out of the room.
He never made it to the privy, but no one cared when he heaved the
contents of his stomach onto the dungheap out back of the inn.
The vote on the loan was the last item on the guild’s
agenda, rather as though the master were putting it off as long as
possible in the vain hope that some omen might make the decision
easier. Ganedd sat sullenly on his bench—way at the back
since he’d come in late—and nursed the mead-sick throb
in his temples and the queasiness in his stomach. All at once, a
bustle on the dais caught his attention. The guildmaster rose,
tossed his cloak back from one shoulder, and blew on his silver
horn to bring the meeting to order, the long sweet note echoing
through the abruptly silent hall. Sunlight hung heavy on the sea of
color that was the finery of the guild: gold-shot banners, checks
and stripes of all colors on cloak and brigga, rainbow-hued
tapestries on the painted walls.
“We come now to the matter of the loan of two thousand
silver pieces to his grace, Gwerbret Aberwyn,” the
guildmaster called out. “Is there any more debate to be laid
before the convocation?”
Silence, stillness—no one spoke or moved. The guildmaster
raised his horn to his lips and blew again.
“Very well. Those in favor, to the right. Those against,
to the left. Scribe, stand ready to count and record the
numbers.”
Slowly, a few at a time, the men rose, starting in the front of
the hall, and walked to the right, so unanimously that the motion
was as smooth as uncoiling a rope. Ganedd watched as first his
father took a place at the right, then his father’s close
friends trotted meekly after. His row, the last, began to get up.
Ganedd followed them free of the benches, then abruptly turned and
marched to the left side of the hall. He’d be cursed and
frozen in the third hell before he’d back a doomed scheme
like this one. It was also the sweetest pleasure he’d ever
tasted to see his father’s face literally turn purple with
rage. Ganedd crossed his arms over his chest and grinned as the
entire guild gasped and stared; whiskered faces, lean faces, shrewd
eyes, watery eyes, but all of them outraged.
“Done, then,” the guildmaster called. “Scribe,
what is your count?”
“Ninety and seven in favor, two members missing from the
count, and one against.”
“There’s one man in Eldidd who’ll hold for the
true king,” Ganedd yelled. “You stinking
cowards!”
At the shriek that rose he felt as if he’d heaved a rock
into the middle of a flock of geese. The men swirled around,
nudging each other, whispering and cursing, then shouting and
cursing, louder and louder as they milled through the hall. Ganedd
had said it out, the one unsayable truth: they were voting treason.
Ganedd started laughing as the guild broke, hurrying away,
muttering among themselves as they all tried to pretend
they’d never heard a thing. Wersyn came running and slapped
him so hard across the face that Ganedd staggered back against the
wall.
“You foul little cub!” Wersyn howled. “How
could you? Ye gods, I’ll kill you for this!”
“Go ahead. I won’t be the last man to die in the
war.”
Cursing a steady stream, Wersyn grabbed his arm and dragged him
across the hall. Ganedd followed meekly, laughing under his breath.
He’d never had such a splendid time in his life. But his
pleasure ended once they were back in their inn chambers. Shaking
in fury, Wersyn shoved Ganedd into a chair and began pacing around,
his hands clenched, his eyes snapping.
“You rotten little bastard! This tears it once and for
all! I’m sending you straight back home. I can’t hold
my head up if I’ve got a son like this at my side. How could
you? Why? Ganno, for the love of every god—why?”
“Just to see what would happen, mostly. You all looked so
wretchedly pleased with yourselves.”
Wersyn strode over and slapped him again.
“You’re taking Maer and getting out of here today.
Get your things and go! I want you out of my sight.”
All the time Ganedd packed, all the time he was saddling his
horse, Wersyn went on yelling at him, calling him a fool and a
demon-spawned ungrateful whelp, a worthless dolt and a turd dropped
by a spavined mare. The entire innyard and Maer as well listened to
this lecture with visible curiosity. Once Wersyn had stormed
inside, and they were leading their horses out into the town, the
silver dagger could stand it no more.
“Ye gods, is he that blasted furious over one
whore?”
“Last night’s got naught to do with it. Remember the
gwerbret’s loan? It came to a vote today, and I was the only
man who voted against it.”
Maer stared at him with a sudden flattering respect.
“Here, that took guts.”
“Did it? Maybe so.”
At the west-running road the city gates were standing open. Just
outside they found another merchant, an old family friend named
Gurcyn, standing by his horse and yelling orders as his muleteers
organized his caravan. Ganedd threw his reins to Maer and strode
over to speak with him, just as a last defiance.
“Good morrow,” Ganedd said. “Leaving so
soon?”
Gurcyn looked him over, not anywhere near as coldly as Ganedd
was expecting, but he said nothing.
“Go on,” Ganedd went on. “Tell me what you
think of me. I’m giving you the chance, rebel.”
“All I think is that you’re a bit lacking in wits,
though long on nerve. This thing’s going to be remembered.
Here, did your father send you home in disgrace?”
“Just that. And what about you? I’m surprised
you’re not staying to celebrate your treason with the rest of
them.”
“Oh, hold your tongue! Roosters who strut too much end up
in the soup kettle. As for me, my wife’s been ill, and
I’ve got to get home straightaway. Good morrow, lad, and by
the gods of our people, watch what you say, will you?”
As Gurcyn walked away, shouting to his men, Maer led their
horses over.
“Who was that? One of the guild?”
“Just so. Why?”
“I’ve seen him before.” Maer’s eyes
narrowed in hard thought. “Probably in some tavern, but you
know, I think it was up in Dun Deverry, right after my lord kicked
me out of Blaeddbyr, like, and I was riding west.”
“Maybe it was. A good guildsman rides wherever the coin
calls, and Dun Deverry calls in a lot of coin. Come on, let’s
get on the cursed road.”
Although Ganedd was usually good company, on the ride back home
he fell into long cold silences and refused to be drawn out, not
even by jests, thus leaving Maer with a lot of time to
think—an unfamiliar activity and one that he preferred to
avoid whenever possible. Now, however, he had a number of strange
things to think about, starting with old Nevyn the herbman. When
they’d first met back in Aberwyn, Maer had barely noticed
him, but as they’d ridden west together, Maer had found
himself oppressed by the growing feeling that he’d known the
old man before, an acquaintance that was logically impossible
because Nevyn insisted that he’d never been anywhere near
Blaeddbyr in all the years since Maer was born, and while Maer was
travelling as a silver dagger, the old man was over in Bardek.
Added to that, of course, Lord Pertyc thought that Nevyn was a
sorcerer, which meant that Lord Pertyc believed that the dweomer
craft was a real thing. Every now and then Maer would bring this
idea to mind, like taking a strange coin out of a pouch, and turn
it over and over between mental fingers, wondering at it. Since
Maer had been raised to follow the noble-born without doubt or
question, he supposed that if Pertyc said the old man was a
sorcerer, then sorcerer he was. He supposed. He held the thought up
to the mental light one more time, shook his head, and put it away
again. Maybe sometime soon it would make sense. Maybe.
Finally there was the matter of the Wildfolk. Ever since young
Adraegyn and the old man had discussed them that one afternoon,
Maer had, again quite against his will, found himself thinking that
perhaps they did indeed exist and that just maybe one of them was
following him around, just as the lad said. His evidence for this
was thin, and he did his best to ignore it. It was just that every
now and then he felt something touch his arm or his hair; even more
rarely, when he was riding, he felt tiny arms clasp his waist as if
someone sat behind him on the saddle. Occassionally he saw a bush
or branch move as if something stood within or upon it, or one of
Lord Pertyc’s dogs would suddenly leap up and bark for no
reason, or one of the horses would suddenly stamp and swing its
head around to look at something that Maer couldn’t see.
Once, when he was drinking a foaming tankard of ale and all alone
at table, a tiny breath had blown the foam right into his face as
he went for a sip. It was beginning to make his flesh creep, all of
it. He would have wished that they’d stop and leave him
alone, except wishing meant admitting that someone existed to do
the stopping. He wasn’t ready to admit that, not in the
least.
Yet he kept gathering new evidence in spite of his attempts to
ignore it. As their horses ambled the last few miles to Cannobaen,
Ganedd’s silence grew as black and cold as a winter storm.
Maer amused himself by looking at the now familiar scenery: off to
his left the clifftop meadows and the sparkling sea, the rich
fields to his right, striped here and there with stands of trees,
all second growth planted for firewood. Scarlet and gold, the
leaves already hung thin and bare along the branches, especially on
the trees planted next to the road that received the full force of
the sea winds. It was in one of these that Maer saw, clear as
clear, a little face peering at him. It was a pretty face,
obviously female, with long dark blue hair and big blue eyes,
staring at him wistfully. When Maer stared back, she suddenly
smiled, revealing a mouthful of long pointed teeth. Maer yelped
aloud.
“What?” Ganedd roused himself. “What’s
so wrong?”
“Don’t you see it? Look! Right there, on that low
branch.”
“See what? Maer, are you going daft? There’s naught
there.”
“It’s a windless day and the leaves are
shaking.”
“Then some bird flew away or somewhat. What are you doing?
Falling asleep in the saddle and dreaming?”
“Well, I guess so. Sorry.”
With a melancholy sigh Ganedd went back to his brooding. Maer
cursed himself for a fool and took up the job of convincing himself
that he’d seen nothing. He’d just about succeeded when
he noticed Nevyn, some hundred yards away, digging a few roots out
on the clifftops. As they passed, the herbman straightened up and
waved, just pleasantly, but his simple presence suddenly struck
Maer like an omen. It was all he could do to wave back.
It was the next market day that Glaenara sold the last of the
cheeses. She was just packing up to go home when she saw a rider
leading his horse through the crowded square: Maer, his silver
dagger bright at his belt. She wasn’t sure if she hoped
he’d stop or not, but he took the matter out of her hands by
doing just that.
“And is your bilge-mouthed brother in town
today?”
“He’s not. What’s it to you?”
“Well, I brought you somewhat of a present from Aberwyn,
and I didn’t want him to see me give it to you.” Maer
took a packet wrapped in a bit of white linen out of his shirt and
handed it over.
“My thanks, Maer. Truly.”
He merely smiled, watching as she unwrapped the cloth and found
a small bronze mirror, a circle that fit neatly into the palm of
her hand. On one side was a bit of silvered glass, held in place by
a band of knotwork wires; on the other was a fancy design of laced
spirals.
“I wanted to get the silver one,” Maer said,
sighing, “but coins flow from silver daggers like chickens
run from foxes.”
“It doesn’t matter. This is lovely. Ye gods,
I’ve never had a mirror before. My thanks. Truly, my
thanks.”
Glaenara held the mirror up. By angling her head, she could see
her reflection a bit at a time, and a lot more clearly than in the
reflection from a bucket of water. Much to her horror, there was a
bit of dirt stuck on her cheek. Hastily she wiped it off.
“A pretty lass like you should have a mirror of her
own.”
“Do you truly think I’m pretty? I
don’t.”
He looked so shocked that she was embarassed.
“Well,” Maer said thoughtfully. “Truly, pretty
isn’t the right word, is it? As handsome as a wild horse or a
trout leaping from a stream, not pretty like a rose in some
lord’s garden.”
“Then my thanks.” Glaenara busied herself with
wrapping the mirror up in the cloth again, but she felt herself
blush with pleasure. “And what errand are you
running?”
“Well, our Badger wanted a word with Ganedd the
merchant’s son. Cursed if I know why, but I’m taking
the lad a letter. I can’t read, or I would have sneaked a
look. It’s not sealed.”
“It would have been dishonorable.”
“Of course, but ye gods, I’ve always been a curious
sort of man. Ah, well, it’s beyond me anyway, all this
wretched writing. Will you come into town next week?”
“I might, I might not. It depends on the
chickens.”
“Then I’ll pray to the Goddess to let them lay more
eggs than your family can possibly eat and that my lord will let me
come down to town.”
After Maer left, Glaenara counted up her coin. She had just
enough to buy a length of cloth to make herself that new dress that
Nalyn had been nagging her about. If she worked hard, sitting
outside every evening to get the last of the sunlight, she could
have the dress finished by next market day.
Ganedd sat uneasily on the edge of his chair and held his goblet
of mead in nervous fingers. The lad was wearing a pair of
blue-and-gray-checked brigga and a shirt heavily worked in
flowers—his best clothes, Pertyc assumed, for his visit to
the noble-born.
“No doubt you’re wondering why I asked you up here.
I’ll come straight to the point. My silver dagger told me
that you voted against the rebellion in Aberwyn. I’m holding
for the king myself. It gladdens my heart that you do the
same.”
“My thanks, my lord, but I don’t know what the two
of us can do about it.”
“Naught more than what we can, truly, but we’ve got
to try. I want to ask you to take my service. There’s going
to be a war in the spring, lad, and I’ve no doubt that our
rebels will want me dead before they march against the
king.”
“I’m no warrior, my lord, but if you want me to join
your men, I’ll do my best to fight.”
Pertyc was both surprised and ashamed of himself. He’d
been dismissing this young man as nothing but a merchant, little
more than a farmer and most likely a coward to boot.
“Well, actually,” Pertyc said, “I was hoping
you’d run an errand for me. You deal with the Westfolk all
the time, don’t you? You must know where to find them and all
that.”
“I do, my lord.” Ganedd looked puzzled; then he
grinned. “Longbows.”
“Just that. If I load you up with every bit of iron goods
and fancy cloth and jewelry and so on that I can scrape together,
do you think you could get me enough bows for the warband? I
wouldn’t take a few extra archers amiss, either, if you can
recruit some.”
“Well, I’ll try my lord, but I don’t think the
Westfolk are interested in hiring out as mercenaries. The bows I
can likely get, though.”
“Well, that’ll be somewhat to the good.”
Pertyc hesitated, struck by a sudden thought and then surprise,
that he’d never had the thought until this moment. “You
know, I wonder just how proud a man I am.”
“My lord?”
It took Pertyc a long time to answer, and in the end, the only
thing that brought him round was his love for his children. While
no rebel lord would ever have knowingly killed his daughter,
terrible things happened in sieges, especially if they ended in
fire. If Pertyc lost the battle but the rebels lost the war,
Adraegyn was quite simply doomed. The king’s men would
smother the boy, most like.
“Tell me somewhat, Ganno. Do you think you could find my
wife?”
Ganedd stared openmouthed.
“Well, she won’t lift a finger for my sake,”
Pertyc said, “but for Becyla and Adraegyn she just might
raise a small army.”
“I’ll do my best, my lord, but the elven gods only
know where she might be, and the Westlands are an awfully big
place. The sooner I leave, the better. Can you give me a guard and
some packhorses? The less of Da’s stock that I use, the fewer
questions Mam will ask.”
All that afternoon, while Ganedd gathered supplies, Pertyc
agonized over the letter to his wife. Finally, when he was running
out of time, he decided to make it as simple and as short as he
could:
“Our children are in mortal danger from a war. My
messenger will explain. For their sakes I’m begging your aid.
I’ll humble myself in any way you want if you’ll just
come and take them to safety.”
He rolled it up, sealed it into a silver message tube, then
without thinking kissed the seal, as if the wax could pass the
message along.
Just at sunset, Ganedd and his impromptu caravan assembled out
in the ward, a straggling line of packhorses and mules along with
two of Pertyc’s most reliable riders for guards and the
undergroom for a servant. Pertyc handed Ganedd what coin he could
spare and the message tube, then walked to the gates to wave his
only true hope on its way until the caravan disappeared into a
welter of dust and sea haze. As he turned to go inside, the ward
flared with yellow light. Up on the tower the lightkeeper had fired
the beacon.
In every warband, Maer reflected sadly, there was always an
utterly humorless man like Crindd. If you said it looked like fair
weather, Crindd saw rain coming; if you said a meal looked good,
Crindd remarked that the cook had filth under her fingernails; if
you liked the look of a horse, Crindd insisted that he had the legs
to come up lame. On a bad day, Crindd’s little black shadow
of gloom could make even Garoic the captain groan under his
breath.
“Ye gods,” Maer said to Cadmyn one morning,
“I’d drown the man except it would give him too much
pleasure to have something go wrong.”
Cadmyn, an easygoing blond who was Maer’s only real friend
in the warband, nodded with a faint look of disgust.
“True-spoken. We all used to mock him, but it wasn’t
truly satisfying. He never seemed to notice, you see.”
“Really? Well, you just leave this to me.”
That afternoon Maer asked for and received Lord Pertyc’s
permission to leave the dun, then rode over to Glaenara’s
farm. Much to his annoyance, she was gone, and her brother-in-law
refused to tell him where.
“Just what do you want anyway, silver dagger?” Nalyn
snarled.
“To buy a pint of dried beans or peas from you and naught
more. I’ll give you a copper.”
Nalyn considered, greed fighting with dislike.
“Oh, I’ll sell you a handful of pulse gladly
enough,” he said at last. “But I don’t want you
hanging around Glae.”
After dinner that night, two of the other lads kept Crindd busy
in the great hall while Maer and Cadmyn sneaked out to the
barracks. They stripped Crindd’s bunk of blanket and sheet,
and while Cadmyn kept watch at the door, Maer sprinkled the dried
peas over the mattress before he made the bed up again. When the
time came, everyone in the warband went to bed full of
anticipation. In the dark they could hear Crindd squirming this way
and that. At last he got up, and they heard the sound of him trying
to brush the sheet clean with his hands. When he got back into bed,
the squirming picked up again. Finally one of the men broke and
sniggered; the entire warband joined in. Crindd sat up with a howl
of rage.
“And just why are you bastards all laughing?”
Silence fell, except for the sound of Crindd getting up and
messing with something at the hearth. At great length, he struck a
spark into tinder and lit a candle. Everyone else sat up and
arranged innocent smiles while he stalked over to examine his
bunk.
“There’s something in my bed!”
“Fleas?” Maer said. “Lice? Bedbugs?”
“Oh, hold your pus-boil tongue, you whoreson
bastard!”
“Nasty, isn’t he?” Cadmyn remarked.
Crindd shoved the candle into a wax-crusted holder and began
hauling the sheet off.
“Dried peas!”
“And how did they get in there?” Cadmyn said.
“Must be the Wildfolk,” Maer answered.
The moment Maer said the name he regretted it, because they came
at the sound, or so he assumed, not knowing that the Wildfolk love
a good prank, the meaner the better. Although it was hard to be
certain in the flickering candlelight, Maer thought he saw them as
little shapes of shadow, thicker than smoke but just as unstable.
When Crindd began gathering the pulse and throwing it impartially
at every man within range, the Wildfolk helped the warband catch
what they could and throw it back. Maer, however, sat stone-still
on his bunk and merely stared, wondering if Nevyn could make a
potion that would bring him back to normal. At last Garoic rushed
in, wearing a night-shirt over his brigga and swearing at the lot
of them to restore order.
The prank brought Maer so much glory that of course he
wasn’t going to stop there, Wildfolk or no Wildfolk. On the
morrow he filled a bucket with water, threw in a handful of mucky
straw from the stable, and balanced it on top of the half-open door
of the tack room. When young Wertyc maneuvered Crindd into going to
fetch something from this room, Crindd flung the door open and
dumped the foul and by then chilly water all over himself. For the
rest of the day, he strode around in a humor as foul as his bath,
and his mood wasn’t sweetened any when Maer barred the privy
door from the outside and trapped him in it. He must have banged
and yelled for a good hour before Adraegyn heard him and let him
out. Crindd grabbed a rake from the nearby dungheap and came
charging for the barracks; he might well have killed someone if
Garoic hadn’t calmed him down.
Although Crindd had no idea who was persecuting him, Garoic
wasn’t so dense. That very evening, he caught Maer as he was
leaving the great hall and hauled him off for a private word.
“Listen, silver dagger, a jest’s a jest, and I have
to admit that I’ve had some good laughs out of all this, but
enough’s enough.”
“But, Captain, sir, what makes you think I’ve got
anything to do with it?”
“My eyes and ears. A warning, silver dagger: the long road
might be calling you soon.”
Since being kicked out of the warband would mean disaster, what
with winter coming on, Maer swore that the pranks would end.
Unfortunately, Cadmyn came up with an idea that was too good to
resist, and he also offered to take the blame for it if worse came
to worst. Crindd had a pair of new riding boots, worked in two
colors of leather, which had cost him all his winnings from a
particularly lucky dice game. Maer and Cadmyn went down to a pond
not far from the dun and found the two last frogs who hadn’t
dug themselves under the mud for the winter. One fit neatly into
each boot. Although Maer and Cadmyn were outside when Crindd went
to put on his new boots, they could hear his shriek quite clearly.
They were laughing themselves sick when Crindd found them.
“You foul bastards! I can see the mud on your
brigga.”
From inside his shirt the frogs croaked.
“You’ve got a pair of pets, have you?” Maer
said. “Well, flowers to the fair, and frogs to the
warty.”
Crindd hauled back and hit him in the face. With a yell, Maer
swung back, but he was so dizzy that he missed. He could hear
Cadmyn shouting, and men running; just as Crindd hit him again,
hands grabbed them both and hauled them apart. Although
Maer’s right eye was already swelling and dripping, he could
see Lord Pertyc and Garoic strolling over, both of them
scowling.
“It was all my fault!” Cadmyn squeaked.
“Crindd hit the wrong man!”
“He would,” Garoic said.
“What is all this?” Pertyc snapped.
“Frogs, my lord! They put frogs in my boots. This very
morning.” Crindd reached inside his shirt and hauled out the
terrified creatures. “Here’s the evidence. And they put
dried peas under my sheet and doused me with rotten water
and . . . ”
“Enough!” Pertyc took the frogs, contemplated them
briefly, then handed them to a grinning Adraegyn. “Go put
these back in the pond, will you? Right now, please. Now, Maer,
Cadmyn. Why did you two commit this list of heinous
crimes?”
Cadmyn groped for words and gave it up as a bad job.
“Well, my lord,” Maer said. “Just for the jest
of the thing. You see, Crindd makes a splendid victim.”
Crindd squealed in outrage, but his lordship laughed.
“I do see, indeed. Crindd, it looks to me like
you’ve already gotten your revenge on Maer’s right eye.
Let this be a lesson to you: never be a splendid victim again. It
gives people ideas.”
“But, my lord—”
“Just think about it, will you?” Pertyc turned to
the two malefactors. “Maer, you’d better go down to the
village and have the herbman look at that eye. I don’t like
the way it’s swelling.”
When Maer rode up to the herbman’s cottage, he received a
surprise bigger than the one the frogs had given Crindd. Out in the
front garden Glaenara was spreading laundry to dry. Pretty in a new
dress of woad-blue wool, she was singing to herself, her raven-dark
hair gleaming in the sunlight. The sight of her made him feel warm
all over.
“And what are you doing here?” he called out as he
dismounted.
“Keeping up Nevyn’s house for him.” She
strolled over to open the gate. “Oh, Maer! Your
eye!”
“I just got into a little scrap with one of the
lads.”
He found Nevyn sitting at a table inside and sorting out various
herbs and dried barks. The old man got up and caught Maer by the
chin, tipping his head back for a look as if the silver dagger were
a child, and his fingers were surprisingly strong.
“Well, that’s a nasty mess, isn’t it?
I’ll make you up a poultice. Sit down, Maer.”
When Maer sat, a pair of big-bellied gnomes appeared on the
table and considered him. He scowled right back. Nevyn went to the
hearth, where an iron pot hung from a tripod over a small
arrangement of logs. When the old man waved his hand at the wood,
it burst into flame. Maer felt so sick that he slumped against the
table behind him like a lady feeling a faint coming on. Nevyn
picked up a handful of herbs from the table and stirred them into
the water shimmering in the pot.
“I’m assuming someone’s fist gave you that
black eye.”
“It was, sir. Not long ago.”
“Ah.” Nevyn turned from his stirring and fixed Maer
with one of his needle-sharp stares. “Glaenara’s a
nice, decent lass, Maer. I would absolutely hate to see her
dishonored and deserted.”
“Would you, sir?” Maer paused to lick dry lips with
a nervous tongue. “Er, ah, well, I imagine you’re not a
pleasant man to face when you’re angry about
somewhat.”
“Not in the least, Maer lad, not in the least.”
When he waved his hand again the fire went out cold. So Lord
Pertyc was right about the old man, Maer thought. I wonder if
sorcerers can really turn men into frogs? I’ve no desire to
find out the hard way, that’s certain.
Yet, as he was leaving, so was Glae, and he decided that it
would be dishonorable to let her walk when he was riding her way.
He lifted her to his saddle, then mounted behind, slipping his arms
around her waist and taking the reins.
“What were you fighting over?” Glaenara said.
“Some lass, I’ll bet.”
“Naught of the sort! It’s a long story.”
During the ride home, he told her about his persecution of
Crindd, and she laughed as much as one of the lads in the warband.
He decided that one of the things he liked best about her was the
way she enjoyed a good laugh; so few lasses seemed to appreciate
his sense of humor. When they got about half a mile from the farm,
she insisted that he let her walk the rest of the way to keep her
brother-in-law from seeing them together. As he was lifting her
down, he tried kissing her. Although she laughed and shoved him
away, she let him steal a second kiss. Just as his lips touched
hers, he felt a sharp pain, like the pinch of bony fingers, in the
back of his left thigh. He yelped and jumped.
“What?” Glae snapped. “What happened to
you?”
“Er, a muscle cramp, I guess.” He rubbed the spot
gingerly—it still hurt, all right. “I’m
sorry.”
“Humph, well, if that’s the way you’re going
to be!”
But she was smiling as she turned away and ran off, heading for
the farm. Although Maer waved goodbye, he was completely
distracted. For a few moments he could see in a tangle of bushes
nearby a small blue creature, as solid and distinct as she could
be, with long blue hair and a face like a beautiful child, scowling
at him in jealous rage. Suddenly she disappeared, leaving him
wondering if he were going mad.
Yet he saw her again, the very next time he rode down into town
in hopes of meeting Glaenara. Sure enough, he found Glae selling
eggs and turnips in the market, but just as he was striking up a
conversation, the blue-haired creature appeared, standing directly
behind Glae and snarling like a jealous lover. Maer completely
forgot himself.
“Now don’t you hurt her!”
“What?” Glae said. “Hurt who? The
chicken?”
“My apologies. I wasn’t talking to you—I
mean—oh, by the hells!”
Glae swiveled around to look behind her. Although Little
Blue-hair, as he started calling her, stamped a foot and shook a
small fist in Glae’s direction, it was obvious that the human
lass saw nothing.
“Maer, you are daft! That’s the oldest
prank in the world, making someone look and find naught there. And
I must be a lackwit to fall for it.”
“Ah, er, sorry. Truly, I shouldn’t have . . . uh,
well. Here, I’ve got to go, uh, er, run an errand, but
I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me.”
Leading his horse, Maer hurried off through the sparse crowd in
the direction of the blacksmith’s shop, but he turned off
before he got there and found a private spot behind the inn. Little
Blue-hair appeared, sitting on his saddle and smirking at him.
Although he felt more daft than ever, he waggled a finger at
her.
“Now listen, you, you can’t go around pinching
people and suchlike.”
She held up one hand and made a pinching motion with her thumb
and forefinger.
“Like that, truly. Don’t do it again, especially not
to other people.”
She stuck her tongue out at him.
“If you don’t behave,
I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll tell Nevyn the
dweomerman on you.”
He made the threat only because he could think of none
better—after all, Nevyn terrified him, didn’t
he?—but it had all the force he could possibly have wanted.
She leapt to her feet, opened her mouth in a soundless shriek,
flung both hands in the air, and disappeared. For a moment Maer
felt almost guilty; then he decided that she’d brought it on
herself and hurried back to take up his courting in peace. For some
weeks afterward, all the Wildfolk stayed far away from him, and he
was glad of it.
“Now listen, Glae,” Nalyn snapped. “You know
as well as I do that Doclyn’s a decent young man and a good
hard worker. His father’s asking me for the smallest possible
dowry that can stand up in a lord’s court. We won’t do
better than that. Why won’t you marry him?”
Glaenara looked up from the bowl of dried beans she was sorting
and simpered at him.
“He doesn’t please me.”
“Oh, my humble, humble apologies, my fine lady! It’s
not looks that matter in a man.”
“Obviously, or Lida never would have married
you.”
“Glae!” Myna spoke sharply from her chair by the
fire. “Please don’t start things up again.”
Glae banged the bowl onto the table and stalked outside,
sweeping her skirts around her as she hurried across the muddy
farmyard. The bitter truth, she supposed, was that unless she
married someone, she’d go on living here, under her
brother-in-law’s thumb, working hard all her life, never
having anything resembling her own house—not that she’d
ever have the lovely things and leisure that Braedda would. When
she reached the cow barn, she paused, looking up at the sky, where
the moon sailed free of a wisp of icy cloud. She shivered, wishing
she’d brought her shawl. Over by the chicken coop something
moved: a man shape, detaching itself from a shadow: Maer. She
hurried over to him and whispered when she spoke.
“What are you doing here?”
“Trying to figure out how to get a word with you. Are you
cold? You can have my cloak. Here.”
Bundled in the heavy wool, she walked with him a little ways
back into the woods, where he’d left his horse. The moon
streamed through the bare-branched trees and made little patterns
on the ground.
“Suppose I come out here tomorrow night,” Maer said.
“Would you meet me?”
“It’s going to rain tomorrow night. Samwna’s
joints ached all day today, and that’s always a sure sign of
rain coming.”
“Well, then, I’ll come out here anyway and keep a
hopeless vigil in the pouring rain and get a horrible fever and
maybe die, and it’ll all be for love of you.”
“Oh, don’t talk daft.”
“I mean it, Glae, truly. I’m half out of my mind for
love of you.”
“Oh, don’t lie to me!”
In the moonlight she could just make out the shock on his face.
Half afraid she’d cry, she sat down on the ground under a
tree. In a moment he joined her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re
right. But I’ll say this, and it’s not fancy words but
the truth. I don’t think there’s another lass like you
in all Deverry and Eldidd.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“A little of both. How’s this? I’m not mad for
love of you, but I blasted well like you a whole lot, and every now
and then, I think maybe I do love you.”
“That I can believe, and my thanks. I like you
too.”
Somewhat hesitantly, Maer slipped one arm around her shoulders
and kissed her. She let him steal another, found herself thinking
of the future, and kissed Maer instead to drive the thought away.
When he started caressing her, she wrapped her arms tight around
him in the spirit of someone gulping a particularly bitter healing
decoction and let him lie her down in the soft leaves.
The medicine worked. Having a man of her own made the rest of
her life easier to take, as did the coppers Nevyn gave her for
tending his cottage. Once she set her mind to ignoring
Nalyn’s insults and keeping peace between them, they got
through whole days without squabbling, and Mam and Lidyan began to
relax into a pleased relief. When the explosion came, then, it was
twice as bad as it might have been. One evening, just at sunset,
Glaenara was chasing the chickens back into the coop for the night
when Nalyn came walking out of the house. She could tell something
was wrong just from the look in his eyes.
“And what’s eating you?”
“I was down in town, today, that’s what, and
everyone was telling me I should be keeping an eye on my little
sister. That silver dagger’s been riding into town to fetch
you, hasn’t he?”
“And what if he has?” Glaenara set her hands on her
hips. “It’s decent of him to give me a ride when
I’m tired.”
“Ride—hah! Who’s riding what, Glae?”
“You little pus boil! Don’t you talk to me that
way!”
Nalyn grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“You tell me the truth.”
Glaenara twisted free and kicking him across the shins. When he
grabbed her again and held tight this time, she was shocked at how
strong he was—towering over her, causing her pain with an
easy masculine strength.
“You’ve been rolling around with that lad,
haven’t you? He wouldn’t want naught else out of the
likes of you.”
This very real possibility made Glaenara burst into tears.
“Oh, ye gods!” Nalyn snapped. “It’s
true, isn’t it?”
“So what if it is? Can’t I have one thing in my
rotten life that I want just because I want it?”
With an oath, Nalyn let go of her, then slapped her hard across
the face. Glaenara slapped back without thinking, and at that, the
long bad feeling between them erupted. He grabbed her by the
shoulder, twisted her around, and slapped her hard across the
behind. As hard as she fought and kicked—and she landed some
bruises on him—she couldn’t get free. The pain of his
slaps was nothing compared with her terror at feeling so helpless.
She was sobbing so hard that she could barely see. Dimly she heard
her mother screaming and Lidyan’s voice calling out. All at
once, Nalyn let her go. Glaenara staggered and almost fell into her
sister’s arms.
“Nal, Nal,” Myna whined. “What are you
doing?”
“Beating a little slut,” Nalyn sputtered out.
“Lida, let go of her! I won’t have my wife feeling
sorry for a slut like this. Her and her cursed silver dagger! Ye
gods, I’m never going to be able to make her a decent match
now.”
Lidyan started to cry, her hands slack on Glaenara’s arm.
Still terrified, Glaenara turned to her mother, to find Myna
staring in paralyzed disbelief, her thin lips trembling, her
patient eyes full of tears. Glaenara tried to speak, but she choked
on pure shame.
“Glae,” Myna whispered, “tell me it’s
not true.”
Glaenara wanted to lie, but she was shaking too badly to speak.
Myna reached out her hand, then drew it back, staring at her all
the while with aching eyes.
“Glae,” Lidyan wailed, “how could
you?”
But Lidyan was watching her husband; Myna turned toward him,
too, a final slap sharper than any hand. They were both going to
let him pass judgement on her.
“It’s true enough,” Glaenara spat out.
“Go on! Call me what you want. I won’t be here to
listen!”
Glaenara barreled through the gate, raced as fast as she could
down the road, kept running even when she heard them call her back.
She hardly knew what she was doing; she only wanted to run and run
and never see any of them again. Her mother was siding with Nalyn.
At the thought tears came to choke her and leave her gasping,
forcing her to fling herself down into the tall grass to weep. By
the time she’d wept herself dry, the sun was setting. She got
up, expecting to see Nalyn coming after her to beat her some more,
but the twilight road was empty, the house far behind. She wiped
her dirty face on her sleeve and began running again, heading for
town and Braedda, who would maybe forgive her—perhaps, she
thought, the only person in the world who would.
At last, just as the stars were pricking the velvet sky,
Glaenara reached the village. As she stood behind the inn and
wondered if Samwna would even let her inside, once she knew the
truth, the tears rose up again, hot and choking. She had no place
in life anymore, nowhere to go, nothing to call her own; she was a
shamed woman and a slut and naught more. She was still weeping when
Braedda’s enormous cousin, Cenedd the blacksmith’s son,
came strolling through the innyard.
“Glae, by the gods!” Cenedd said. “And
what’s all this?”
“Nalyn turned me out, and I deserved it. All because of
Maer.”
When Cenedd caught her by the shoulders, Glaenara flinched back,
expecting that he would beat her, too.
“Bastards, both of them,” Cenedd said
matter-of-factly. “Now don’t cry like that.” He
turned his head and yelled. “Braedda, get out
here!”
When Braedda and Samwna hurried out, Glaenara blurted the truth
between sobs, simply because there was no use in lying. Braedda
began to cry, too, but Samwna took charge—again, as
matter-of-factly as Cenedd.
“Now, now, it’s not the end of the world. Oh, Glae,
you’ve been such a dolt, but truly, I was afraid this was
going to happen. Here, you’re not with child, are
you?”
“I don’t know. It’s not been long enough to
tell.”
“Well, then, we’ll know when we know and not a
minute later. You come inside where it’s warm, and
we’ll all have some nice hot ale.”
As the two women led her into the kitchen, Glae looked back to
see Cenedd standing and talking urgently with Ewsn and Selyn, the
weaver’s son. She and Braedda sat huddled together on a bench
in the corner of the kitchen while Samwna bustled around, pouring
ale into a tall metal flagon and setting it into the coals on the
hearth.
“Mam?” Braedda said. “Can Glae sleep here
tonight?”
“Of course. There’s no use in trying to talk sense
to Nalyn until he’s had a chance to cool off a
bit.”
“My thanks,” Glae stammered. “Why would you
even help me? You should just let me sleep in the road.”
“Hush, hush! You’re not the first lass in the world
to make a fool out of herself over a good-looking rider, and
doubtless you won’t be the last.”
Ewsn stuck his gray head into the kitchen and caught
Samwna’s attention.
“Be back in a bit. Just going for a ride with some of the
lads. We’ve been thinking about poor Myna, you
see.”
“So have I,” Samwna said. “It aches my
heart.”
“You’re not going out to the farm, are you?”
Glaenara blurted out.
“Not just yet, lass,” Ewsn said. “We’ll
let your brother think things over before we do that.”
After dinner, Pertyc’s riders were welcome to sit in the
great hall and drink while they gossiped or watched the little
there was to see. Maer and Cadmyn were playing dice when Ewsn the
inkeep, Cenedd the blacksmith’s son, and Selyn the
weaver’s son came into the great hall, stood looking around
them for a hesitant moment, then went over to whisper urgently to
Pertyc.
“Wonder what they’re doing here,” Cadmyn
remarked.
“Who knows? Seems a strange time of day to pay your
taxes.”
In a few minutes a smirking Adraegyn came skipping over to the
riders’ table.
“Maer, Da wants to see you. You’re in real trouble,
Maer.”
“Am I now? Then why are you grinning like a
fiend?”
“You’ll see. Come on, Maer. Da wants you right
now.”
Up by Lord Pertyc’s carved chair stood Ewsn, Cenedd, and
Selyn, all of them with their arms crossed over their chests and
their mouths set in tight lines. Pertyc himself seemed to be
smothering laughter. Maer shoved a couple of dogs out of the way
and knelt at the lord’s feet.
“I wanted to tender you my congratulations, Maer,”
Pertyc said.
“Congratulations, my lord?”
“On your coming marriage.”
Utterly puzzled, sure that this was a prank, Maer glanced this
way and that. Cenedd stepped forward, looking somehow even more
enormous than usual.
“Marriage,” Cenedd said. “You’ve been
trifling with Glae, you little bastard, and now her brother’s
kicked her out.”
“Marriage isn’t as bad as all that, Maer.”
Pertyc leaned forward with a look of bland sincerity on his face.
“Why, I did it myself once, and it didn’t kill
me—though in all honesty it came blasted near.”
Maer tried to speak and failed while the warband snickered among
themselves.
“I guess I’d best give you a permanent place in my
warband,” Pertyc went on. “Can’t have poor Glae
riding behind a silver dagger.”
“Now, here,” Maer squeaked. “I haven’t
even said I would yet.”
Cenedd flexed his massive muscles.
“Now look, I’ll make a cursed rotten husband. Glae
deserves better than me.”
“So she does,” Ewsn put in. “But it’s a
bit late for that now, lad. You’re the one who’s been
lifting her skirts, and you’re the one who’s marrying
her.”
Ewsn and Selyn stooped like striking hawks, grabbed Maer one at
each arm, and hauled him to his feet.
“Now listen,” Cenedd said. “You lost Glae her
home. Either you give her another one, or I’ll pound you into
slime.”
Maer had the sincere feeling he was going to faint.
“If she comes to live with you here in the dun,”
Pertyc said, “I’ve got just the place for her.
I’ve never known as strong-minded a lass as our Glae, so she
can be my daughter’s nursemaid. Here, you’ve gone all
white, lad! You’ll like being married. It just takes a bit of
getting used to. We’ll see what we can do about getting you a
chamber to yourselves here in the broch.” He glanced at a
smirking servant. “Go saddle Maer’s horse for him.
He’s riding down to the village to see his
betrothed.”
Catcalls, cheers, and jeers—the warband exploded into
laughter.
“Hey, Maer!” Crindd called. “Now this is truly
funny!”
With a deep involuntary groan, Maer shut his eyes and let Cenedd
drag him out into the ward. Adraegyn came running after and gave
Maer’s sleeve a tug.
“But, Maer, what did you do to Glae?”
“Go ask your father, lad. It’s too complicated to
explain right now.”
A grim procession of three villagers and one newly betrothed
silver dagger rode round to the back of the inn to dismount. When
Maer hesistated, Cenedd pulled him bodily from his horse, shook him
hard, and set him on his feet again. When Maer groaned at the
injustice of it all, Cenedd gave him a shove and sent him
staggering inside, where Ewsn, Selyn, Samwna, and Braedda were all
waiting and, just behind them, Nevyn stood and glared. Maer went
cold all over in terror, remembering two very salient facts: Nevyn
had taken Glae under his wing, and he was a sorcerer,
capable—Maer was suddenly positive on this point—of
turning men into frogs. No hope now, Maer thought: it’s
marriage or the marsh. Glae herself was huddled on a bench in a
corner. He’d never seen anyone look so miserable as she did
then, her eyes swollen from weeping, her pretty dress torn and
dirty, and on her cheek a flat red welt. All at once, Maer realized
that her brother must have beaten her, and he felt himself to be
the most dishonorable wretch in the entire kingdom. Glae raised her
head and looked at him, her mouth trembling with tears.
“You don’t have to marry me if you don’t want
to.” Her voice was dry and cold. “I’d rather
starve than take that kind of charity.”
“Oh, hold your tongue! Of course I want to marry
you!” He hurried over and threw himself down to kneel beside
her. “Here, my sweet, forgive me. I’ve been cursed
rotten to you.”
Glaenara stared as if she couldn’t believe her ears. When
he held out his hand, she let hers lie limply in his, as if she
hardly cared what he did to her.
“Glae, I truly want to marry you. Now come on, give your
man a smile, won’t you?”
At last Glaenara did smile, shyly at first, then blossoming into
the brilliant grin that made her look beautiful. Nevyn pushed his
way through the gathering crowd and fixed Maer with an ice-blue
glare.
“You’d best be a good husband.”
“The best you’ve ever seen. I swear it.”
“Good.” Nevyn started to say more, then glanced to
one side, frowning.
When Maer followed his gaze, he saw Little Blue-hair sitting
cross-legged on the floor like a child. That night she seemed about
three feet tall, and more solid than he’d ever seen her
before. She pointed to Glae, wrinkled up her nose in scorn, then
began to weep. As Maer watched horrified, she slowly vanished,
fading away, turning transparent, then gone, tears and all. Yet
somehow, he knew she’d be back. When he glanced back
Nevyn’s way, he found the old man troubled, and that was the
most frightening thing of all.
That year, which was 918 as Deverry men reckon time, Loddlaen
turned three, a slender, solemn child with pale hair and enormous
purple eyes. Although the other children treated him as one of
their own, he always seemed set apart from the games and the
general shouting, preferring to cling to his father’s trouser
leg and merely watch the goings-on or to play quietly with his
foster brother, Javanateriel, in the safety of a tent. In his
better moments, Aderyn wondered if the time he’d spent
trapped in his mother’s womb off in the Guardians’
strange country had affected him in some way, but usually he
refused to believe that anything could be wrong with his beautiful
son. Even when Loddlaen woke in the night screaming from horrible
dreams, Aderyn told himself that all children dreamt of monsters
and suchlike at his age.
The autumn alardan that year was one of the largest Aderyn had
ever seen. Since all summer the weather had been exceptionally
fine, the grass was exceptionally lush, meaning that there was
enough fodder near the campground to feed the herds for a few days
longer than usual, and the elves took advantage of it for a long
week of feasting and good company. Although Aderyn didn’t
bother to count, it seemed to him that at least five hundred tents
sprang up along the stream chosen for the great meeting. At night
the tiny cooking fires looked like a field of stars. There were so
many horses and sheep that the mounted herders had to take them out
a long way around the camp, half a day’s ride in some
cases.
It was no wonder, then, that Ganedd and his small caravan
stumbled across the alardan, especially since the young merchant
had enough sense to realize that the elves would be travelling
south by then instead of camping near the usual trading sites.
Aderyn had met Ganedd several times before; he rather liked the
lad, and he could sympathize with his desire to break free of his
family’s constricted life and see something of the world. It
was Aderyn that Ganedd sought out, in fact, once he and his men had
been fed and given a place to set up their own tent, because Ganedd
knew elven ways well enough to come to the Wise One first. As soon
as Aderyn heard his story, though, he sent for Halaberiel. The
banadar was beginning to show his age; there were deep
crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes, and in certain lights
you would have sworn that you could see streaks of gray in his pale
hair.
“Hal, you’d best listen to this,” Aderyn said.
“There’s trouble in Cannobaen, and two half-elven
children are involved.”
“Pertyc Maelwaedd’s offspring?” Halaberiel
glanced at Ganedd.
“Yes, Banadar.” The boy’s Elvish was not good,
but adequate. “He sent me here with a letter for his wife. He
needs help badly. His enemies are threatening to burn his stone
tent and kill him and his children. He has eleven men and no
archers. They have hundreds and hundreds of men.”
“Well, how like the cursed Round-ears, to count on unfair
odds like that.” Halaberiel changed to Deverrian for the sake
of their guest. “I doubt me if you can find his wife, lad.
The last I saw of her, she was heading west with her alar to the
far camps. I’ll send out messengers, but we don’t have
a blasted lot of hope of catching up with her in time.”
“Well, I was afraid of that, sir,” Ganedd said.
“But what we really need are bows, and extra arrows, and
maybe an archer or two to show us how to use them, though truly
they’d best be gone again before the siege starts. It would
ache my heart to have your people slain in what’s most likely
a hopeless cause.”
“I remember Pertyc from his wedding.” Halaberiel
glanced at Aderyn. “As I remember, you missed that particular
celebration, Wise One. He’s a good man, the only Round-ear I
eve really liked—well, besides you, but then, you’re
not really a Round-ear. Never were, as far as I can tell. I
don’t see why Annaleria ever married him, but cursed if
I’ll sit here while a man I like gets himself murdered in his
tent.”
“You’ll help us, sir?” Ganedd broke into a
grin.
“I will. Bows you shall have, and arrows, and me and some
of my men, too. Calonderiel’s always spoiling for a good
scrap, and I think Farendar and Albaral will ride with us for the
excitement of the thing, and then there’s young Jennantar,
who needs to learn Eldidd speech. I’ll pass the word around
and see if anyone else’s heart burns to come with us, but
truly, Ganedd, I don’t want to risk many more men than
that.”
“Banadar, you’re worth a hundred Round-ear men by
yourself alone.”
Halaberiel laughed.
“Put me up high on a stone wall with a good bow and
someone to keep filling my quiver, and you might just be right,
lad. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Although Aderyn’s first reaction was a sick feeling at
this elven interference in human politics, in the end he decided
that there was nothing he could do to prevent it. As the Wise One,
Aderyn could have overruled the banadar, but only at a great social
cost; there would have been arguments for days, and the entire
alardan would have lined up on one side or the other, leading to
further trouble for years to come. Besides, he considered that
indeed Pertyc Maelwaedd had every justice on his side and deserved
defending, as he remarked to Nevyn when they talked later that
evening through the fire.
“I agree, actually,” Nevyn thought back to him.
“But do you think archers are going to make that much of a
difference?”
“I do. I mean, Hal tells me that in an open field the
rebel army could easily wipe out a small squad of archers, but this
isn’t an open field, is it? The banadar’s bringing two
fletchers with us, and I gather he’s going to have them spend
all winter making arrows while he trains Pertyc’s
men.”
“I see. Wait—did you say with
us?”
“I thought I’d best come along. I’d like to
bring Loddlaen, so you could see him, but it’s just too
dangerous.”
“On that, at least, I couldn’t agree more. You know,
there’s a thing going on here that I’d like you to take
a look at, too. Do you remember Maddyn?”
Aderyn thought for a long moment.
“Oh, the bard! The one who had the silver ring with the
roses on it.”
“Exactly. Well, he’s been reborn, and he’s
here, and that wretched little blue sprite is still hanging around
him. You know, I think she honestly loves him. I didn’t think
the Wildfolk were capable of that.”
“No more did I.”
“And now Maer’s starting seeing her and all of her
kin, for that matter. He came to me about it the other day, poor
lad, quite troubled about it. I made a little speech, all pompous
and vague, about the magical nature of borderlands in general and
this one in particular, and I dropped a few harmless hints about
the Westfolk. Blather, it was, but he was impressed and felt much
better. I could hardly tell him that being around me was awakening
his deepest memories of his last life.”
“If that’s all it is. The sprite may have something
to do with this, too. I’m on my way, then. We leave at dawn
tomorrow, and since we have a pack train to contend with,
it’ll probably take us a fortnight at the very least to reach
Cannobaen.”
“Well and good. I’m looking forward to seeing you
again.”
“And I, you. It’s been too long.”
On the day that the caravan arrived in Cannobaen, it poured
rain, one of those quiet storms that without any pompous show of
thunder and lightning settle in to soak everything. Since Maer had
drawn stable duty that morning, he was out in the ward, wrapped in
a greased cloak with the hood up, sweeping the stable leavings into
a mound for the gardener. The rain had just finally found its way
through the heavy wool to run down his back when he heard a clatter
of hooves and a shout at the gates. Delighted with the distraction,
he dropped his rake and trotted over just as Ganedd led his men and
laden mules inside. Maer whooped in delight and yelled at the
gardener to run and fetch his lordship.
“Maer!” Ganedd sang out. “Gladdens my heart
and all that! We’ve done it, Maer! We’ve got bows and
the men to teach us how to use them.”
Maer whooped again; he’d been rather looking forward to
living longer than one winter more. All at once he realized that
Wildfolk were swarming around the tiny caravan, and that he could
see them all more clearly than ever before. Sylphs hung in the air,
delighting in the rain; undines rose up out of puddles and grinned
at him; sprites and gnomes thronged around the animals and sat on
the saddles and mule packs; some of the bolder creatures were even
perched on the shoulders of the men or rushed to greet them as they
dismounted. Nevyn’s impressive remarks about the Westfolk and
their affinities began to take on actual meaning.
“Come on!” Ganedd called. “Take our guests
inside to meet Lord Pertyc. Here come the servants to tend the
stock.”
With Ganedd in the lead they all dashed into the great hall,
which was hot and smoky from the fires roaring in both hearths.
Immediately everyone threw off their cloaks and dropped them into a
wet and smelly heap for a serving lass to deal with later. Maer
received his second shock of the day, because he’d never seen
an elf before, never even knew that they existed, in fact. Cat-slit
and enormous eyes of green and purple and indigo blue, hair as pale
as moonlight, and the ears—try as he might he couldn’t
look away. Finally a tall fellow with violet eyes took offense.
“And just what are you staring at, you Round-ear
dog?”
“Cal, hold your tongue!” As fast as any lord to
break up a brawl, the eldest of the lot stepped in between them.
“You can’t blame the lad for being surprised. He
can’t be such a bad fellow, anyway, since he’s friends
with the Wildfolk.”
Maer glanced down to see Little Blue-hair. She’d come up
beside him and taken his hand in one of hers; now she leaned
against his trouser leg and stared at the visitors like a shy
child.
“You see them, too?” Maer whispered.
“Of course.” The man called Cal smiled and held out
his hand. “Friends?”
“Done.”
They shook hands solemnly; then Cal hurried after the others to
be presented to the lord.
“Ganedd, my friend, if it were in my power to ennoble you,
I would,” Pertyc said. “Since it’s not, and since
I don’t have more than a handful of coin to my name, I
don’t really know how I’ll ever be able to repay
you.”
“Well, my lord, if we all get ourselves killed in the
spring, repayment’s a moot point, anyway.”
Pertyc laughed and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“I like you merchants. So hardheaded, so practical. Well,
if I can figure out a way to do it, I’ll repay you anyway,
especially if by some miracle we do live through the
spring.”
“Then I’ll take it gladly, my lord. Here, the
servants should have brought those bows up by now. If his lordship
will excuse me, I’ll just go hurry them along.”
“Please do. I don’t think I’ve ever waited
more eagerly for anything than I’ve been waiting for those
bows. And I need to have a word with my old friend Halaberiel
anyway.”
As Ganedd was leaving the great hall, he came face to face with
a young woman. With Glaenara—Ganedd stared openmouthed. All
bathed and civilized as she was, he hadn’t recognized her for
a moment. Even her hair was glossy-clean and growing longer,
curling softly around her face. Her hands were clean, too, and her
nails nicely manicured.
“What’s wrong, Ganno? Fall off your horse and hit
your head?”
“Oh, my apologies, Glae! I, uh, well, just didn’t
recognize you. I mean: I wasn’t expecting to see you
here.”
“I’m married to Maer now.”
“The silver dagger?”
“Well, he isn’t that anymore.” She hesitated,
suddenly distressed. “Ganno, do you still want to marry
Braedda?”
“What? Of course.”
“Then you’d best get down to the village today. When
your da got back from Aberwyn, you know? He went straight to
Braedda’s father and tried to break off the betrothal, but
Ewsn, bless him, said he’d wait to speak with you about
it.”
Ganedd took her advice and rode down as soon as Pertyc gave him
leave, much later that day. The rain had rolled on its way by then,
leaving the sunset clean and bright, with a snap of the sea wind
and the tang of salt in the air. Round back of his parents’
house he tethered his horse, then climbed over the garden wall and
let himself in the back door. Twelve-year-old Avyl was in the
kitchen, badgering the cook for a piece of bread and honey. When he
saw Ganedd, he smirked. The cook threw her apron over her face and
began to weep.
“Oho, so you came home, huh?” Avyl said.
“Wait’ll you see Da.”
When Ganedd stalked by, Avyl followed, snickering. The noise
brought Moligga out into the corridor. She took one look at Ganedd
and began to tremble. Avyl abruptly held his tongue.
“I’m sorry, Mam,” Ganedd said. “But I
had to do what I think is right.”
She started to speak, then merely shook her head in a scatter of
tears. When Ganedd went to lay his hand on her arm, she drew
back.
“Ganno, get out,” Moligga said, almost whispering.
“I don’t want your father even seeing you.”
“Indeed? Well, I want to say a thing or two to him. Tell
me one thing: how do you feel about this rebellion?”
“Do you think I care one way or another? Oh, ye gods, that
ever it would come to this: my lad and my man, at each
other’s throats, and all over a kind I’ve never even
seen!” Slowly the tears welled, running down her cheeks.
“Ganno, he made a declaration before the whole guild and cut
you off.”
“I knew he would. Where is he?”
“Don’t.” Moligga caught his arm. “Just
leave.”
As gently as he could, Ganedd pushed past her and walked on down
the corridor. He flung open the door to his father’s study
and marched in without knocking. Wersyn rose from his writing desk,
his fingers clasping a leather-bound ledger, and gave him a sour
little smile.
“Who are you? Strange—you remind me of my dead
son.”
For a moment, Ganedd couldn’t breathe. Wersyn went on
smiling. The silence hung as thick as sea fog in the tiny
chamber.
“Then count me his spirit come back from the Otherlands
for a little while. And I’ll give you a warning, like spirits
do. If I live through this winter, then I’m going to see to
it that you never trade in the Westlands again. They’re my
friends, Da, not yours, and you cursed well know it.”
With a gasp, Wersyn hurled the ledger straight at his head.
Ganedd dodged, laughing.
“But it’s for the king’s sake, Da. Not
mine.”
His face scarlet with rage, Wersyn rushed him, his hand raised
for a slap. Ganedd heard Moligga scream. He dodged, caught his
father’s wrists, and grimly held on. No matter how much
Wersyn struggled, he couldn’t break free. He was panting for
breath and weeping in frustration at the inescapable truth: his
little son was the stronger man now. When Moligga started to sob,
Ganedd let him go.
“You can’t hit a dead man. Farewell.”
Ganedd turned on his heel and walked slowly out, strode down the
corridor, and opened the front door. His brother’s skinny
little face stared at him wide-eyed.
“I’m the heir now, Ganno. What do you think of
that?”
“They should have drowned you young. Like the rat-faced
weasel you are.”
Earlier that day Aderyn had ridden down to see Nevyn in his
cottage, where they could talk privately of things that would only
unsettle ordinary men. Nevyn was surprised by just how glad he was
to see his old pupil in the flesh rather than through a scrying
focus, enough so to make him wonder if he were growing old and
sentimental or suchlike. For hours they talked of everything and
nothing, sharing news of the craft and the various apprentices
they’d taken in the past or, in Aderyn’s case, that
they had now.
“The Westfolk are really amazing when it comes to
magic,” Aderyn said at last. “They have more of an
affinity for it than we do.”
“No doubt. Look at how vital they are, living so long
while keeping so young-seeming and all. It seems to me that they
must be far more open to the flow of the life-power than humans
are.”
“They’re far more in harmony with life itself,
actually. Well”—Aderyn’s expression suddenly
turned blank and closed—“most of them.”
Nevyn could figure out that somehow the conversation had brought
Dallandra to his mind.
“Ah, well,” Nevyn said, and a bit hurriedly.
“I take it that your larger work is going well, too.
Restoring the full dweomer to the Westfolk, I mean.”
They talked for a good long while more and parted with
arrangements made to meet on the morrow as well. After Aderyn went
on his way, Nevyn went into his bedchamber and sat down on the
wooden floor to lift up the loose board and take out the small
wooden casket where the opal was hidden. It was wrapped in five
pieces of Bardek silk: the palest purple-gray, a flaming red, a
deep sea blue, a sunny yellow, and then a mottled bit, russet,
citrine, olive, and black. He laid it in the palm of his hand and
considered the stone as it gleamed softly in the candlelight.
Since any good stone will pick up bits of emotion,
dream-thought, and life-force from its owners and the events around
it, Nevyn had postponed starting his work upon it. His own will and
feelings were troubled and clouded by what he referred to as
“this stupid rebellion,” and if his mind wasn’t
utterly clear, he would inevitably charge the opal with the wrong
thoughts. The last thing he wanted his talisman to radiate to the
High Kings of All Deverry was a self-righteous irritation. They
doubtless could summon enough of that on their own. One way or
another, he’d have to settle things here in Cannobaen before
he could get down to work. Ah well, he told himself, if you’d
wanted an easy life, you could have been a wretched priest and been
done with it!