Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Have you come to kill me?” he said.

“I haven’t. I’ve brought you somewhat from the lady.”

“It’s a pity she didn’t just let me hang. The flogging would have been better than this.”

“Don’t talk like a dolt.” Ricyn took the prepared message tube out of his shirt. “Ride to Blaeddbyr and give this to Lord Gwetmar. He needs a good captain with all the cursed Boars on the border.”

Dannyn looked at the proffered tube for a moment, then took it and slipped it inside his shirt.

“She’s most generous to those she conquers, but taking her favor is the cursed worst thing of all. Tell me somewhat and honestly, Ricco, for the sake of the battles we’ve ridden together. Are you bedding her or not?”

Ricyn’s hand seemed to find his sword hilt of its own accord.

“I’m not, and never would I.”

“Huh. So you’ll be her little lapdog, will you? I thought you were more of a man than that.”

“You’re forgetting the Goddess.”

“Huh.” It was more a snort than word.

Ricyn found his sword in his hand without his being aware that he’d drawn it. Dannyn sat back on his heels and smirked at him. With a wrench of will, Ricyn sheathed the sword.

“Clever bastard, aren’t you? But I’m not going to kill you and spare you your shame.”

Dannyn went as limp as a sack of meal. Ricyn turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

The ward was packed with people from wall to wall, every lord, every rider, every servant, all whispering and waiting. Ricyn found Gweniver and Nevyn down by the gates, where a pair of the King’s Guard held Dannyn’s black gelding, saddled and ready. When Dannyn came out of the broch, the crowd parted to let him pass. His head held high, he swung his bedroll from one hand as easily, as cheerfully as if he were going out on campaign. The whispers rose round him, but he smiled at the guard, patted his horse’s neck, and tied his bedroll to the saddle while he ignored the tittering laughter, the pointing kitchen wenches. When he mounted, a few jeers of “Bastard!” rose above the whisper. Dannyn turned in the saddle and bowed to his taunters, and all the while he smiled.

Drawn by some impulse that Ricyn couldn’t understand, Gweniver followed Dannyn when he rode out the gates. Ricyn caught Nevyn’s eye and motioned for the old man to come along as he hurried after her. All during Dannyn’s slow ride through the crowded streets, the folk turned to stare at him, to whisper, to call him bastard, but he sat straight and proudly in the saddle. At the city gates he bowed to the guards, then kicked his horse to a gallop and raced down the open road. Ricyn let out his breath in a sigh of relief. In spite of himself, he felt a stab of pity.

“My lady?” he said to Gweniver. “Why did you follow him?”

“I wanted to see if he’d break. Pity he didn’t.”

“Ye gods, Gwen!” Nevyn snapped. “I was hoping you’d find it in your heart to forgive him.”

“Now, that’s the first stupid thing I’ve ever heard you say, good sir. Why by all the ice in all the hells should I? I allowed the king to banish him for his sake, not Dannyn’s, and our liege was blasted lucky that he got that much out of me.”

“Indeed?” the old man said with some asperity. “Hatred binds two people together even more tightly than love. You might reflect upon that.”

The three of them strolled along the north-running road, bordered with the green meadowland of the king’s personal demesne. In the cold, clear sky, white clouds piled up and scudded before the rising wind. Ricyn was just thinking that he’d like to get back to the warmth of the great hall when he saw the horse, trotting toward them down the road. It was Dannyn’s black, riderless, with the reins tied to the saddle peak. With an oath Ricyn ran over and grabbed the reins. All of its master’s gear was still tied to the saddle.

“Oh, ye gods,” Nevyn said. “Gwen, take that horse back to the dun and tell the guards how you found it. Bring them back with you. Ricco, come along. He can’t be far.”

Ricyn found out that Nevyn could run surprisingly fast for a man his age. They jogged down the road for about half a mile to a small rise with a single oak growing at its top. Someone was sitting under the tree. Swearing, Nevyn raced up the hill, and Ricyn panted after him. Dannyn was slumped over, his bloody dagger still tight in his hand. He’d cut his own throat not a mile away from the king he loved. When Ricyn turned away, he could see Dun Cerrmor rising above the town, the red-and-silver banners flapping in the wind.

“Ah, shit!” Ricyn said. “The poor bastard.”

“And is this enough vengeance for you?”

“Too much. He’s got my forgiveness, if it’ll do him any good in the Otherlands.”

Nodding a little, Nevyn turned away.

“Well and good,” he said. “Then that’s one link on this chain broken, anyway.”

“What?”

“Oh, naught, naught. Look. Here come the city guards now.”

Nevyn stayed for another year in Cerrmor, but the time came when he could no longer bear to see Gweniver ride to war or to wait with the dread that she’d never ride home. One wet spring day he left the dun and rode north to do what he could for the common folk of the kingdom. Although at first he thought of Gweniver often, he had so much else to trouble his heart that soon her memory faded. Year after year the wars raged, and plague followed in their wake. Everywhere he went, Nevyn tried to counsel lords toward peace and the ordinary folk toward their own survival, but he felt that he was doing so little good, no matter how grateful were the people he helped, that he gave in to despair. In his heart he reached the Dark Paths, where even the dweomer turns to dust and ashes, no comfort nor a joy. Out of duty to the Light, he kept up his work, but the last cruel mockery was that he was serving out of duty alone instead of his former love.

In the fifth spring, when apple blossoms were coming out in deserted orchards, some chance thought made him remember Gweniver, and once he’d thought of her, his curiosity got the better of him. That night he knelt by his campfire and focused his mind on the flames. Vividly he saw Gweniver and Ricyn, walking across the ward in Dun Cerrmor. They looked so unchanged that he thought he was only having a particularly vivid memory, but when she turned her head, he saw a fresh scar sliced through the blue tattoo. He ended the vision, but once he’d seen her, he couldn’t forget her again. In the morning, with a sigh for the follies of men, he took the road to Cerrmor.

On a day when the soft breeze and the smell of fresh-growing grass mocked the kingdom’s sufferings, Nevyn rode through the gates of the city. As he was dismounting to lead his horse and pack mule through the busy streets, he heard someone hail him and turned to find Gweniver and Ricyn, leading horses as they hurried over.

“Nevyn!” she sang out. “It gladdens my heart to see you.”

“And mine to see you, and Ricco here, too. I’m flattered that you remember me.”

“What? Oh, now, here, how could we ever forget you? Ricco and I were just going out for a ride, but let us stand you a tankard of ale instead.”

At Gweniver’s insistence they went to the best inn in Cerrmor, an elegant place with polished wood floors and whitewashed walls. She also insisted on buying them the best ale with that easy warrior’s generosity that cares little for coin a man might not live to spend. Once they were settled, Nevyn studied her while she told him the latest news of the war. Although she was hardened, as if her entire body were a weapon, her movements were firm yet graceful in a way that lay beyond the categories of male or female. As for Ricyn, he was as sunny and bland as ever, shy as he drank his ale and watched her.