Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

Every now and then, when their eyes met, they smiled at each other, an exchange that was as full of tension as it was of love, as if their hearts were goblets filled to the brim, the liquid trembling but never spilling over to release. The link between them was so strong that it was visible to Nevyn’s dweomer-touched sight as a web of pale light in their auras, formed from their normal sexual energy transmuted to a magical bond. He had no doubt that power flowed between them, too, that somehow they would always know where the other was in the worst press of battle, that thoughts passed between them so instinctively that they were unaware of it. Seeing her dweomer-talent so ill-used made him heartsick.

“Now, here, good Nevyn,” she said at last. “You’ve got to come up to the dun. Did the dweomer bring you back to us?”

“Not truly. Why? Is somewhat wrong?”

“Somewhat like that.” Ricyn glanced around and lowered his voice. “It’s our liege, you see. He’s been having these black moods, and no one can bring him out of them.”

“He broods on things,” Gweniver put in, also in a whisper. “And he says things like he can’t be the true king after all and other utter nonsense. The queen’s half-afraid he’s going mad.”

They both looked at him in expectant faith that he would solve everything. He felt so helpless that their trust came close to making him weep.

“What’s so wrong?” Gweniver said.

“Ah, well, I’m just so cursed weary these days, seeing the land in turmoil, and there’s naught I can do to stop the suffering.”

“Well, by the gods! It’s not yours to stop. Don’t vex yourself so deeply. Don’t you remember what you told the king when he was so heartsick over Dannyn’s death? You said it was only vanity that makes a man think he can turn aside someone else’s Wyrd.”

“Vanity? Well, so it is.”

In her unthinking way she’d given him the very word he needed to hear. A vanity much like Glyn’s, he thought. In my heart I’m still the prince, thinking that the kingdom still revolves around me and my doings. When he reminded himself that he was only a servant, waiting for a command, he was suddenly sure that the command would come. Someday he would see the Light shine again.

When they went up to the dun, servants came running and clustered round him as if he were indeed a prince. Orivaen insisted on giving him an elegant chamber in the main broch and personally accompanied him up. While Nevyn unpacked, the chamberlain gave him various bits of gossip. Lord Gwetmar and Lady Macla had two sons; Prince Mael was still in the tower; Gavra, his old apprentice, was now an herbwoman in the city.

“And what of our liege?” Nevyn said.

Orivaen’s eyes darkened.

“I’ll arrange a private audience this evening. Once you’ve seen him, we can speak further.”

“I see. And what about Saddar? Is he still at court, or did he finally take his humbling to heart and leave?”

“He’s dead. Strange, in a way. It happened directly after you left us that summer. He developed a peculiar congestion of the stomach.”

When Nevyn swore under his breath, Orivaen’s expression turned completely bland. Nevyn wondered if the king himself had ordered the old man poisoned, or if some loyal courtier had taken the little task on himself, once the only herbman who could have saved Saddar had gone away.

In the afternoon Nevyn went down into Cerrmor and found Gavra, who was living with her brother’s family over his inn. She fell laughing into his arms, dipped him up some ale, and took him up to her chamber for a chat. She’d grown into an imposing young woman, still pretty and sleek, but with a depth of feeling and shrewdness in her dark eyes. Her chamber was stacked with herbs, jars of salve, and the other tools of her trade, neatly arranged around the furniture, a single bed, a wooden chest, and by the hearth, a cradle. Asleep inside was a pretty little lass about ten months old.

“Your brother’s youngest child?” Nevyn said.

“She’s not, but mine. Do you despise me for it?”

“What? Whatever made you think I would?”

“Well, my brother was none too pleased at having a bastard in the family. I’m just lucky I can bring in coin to feed us.”

As if she knew she was being discussed, the baby yawned, opened cornflower-blue eyes, and fell back asleep.

“Why hasn’t the father married you?”

“He’s married to someone else. I know I’m but a fool, but I love him all the same.”

Nevyn sat down on the wooden chest. He’d never expected that his clever Gavra would have gotten herself into this sort of mess. She leaned on the windowsill and looked out at her narrow view, the side of another house, a small dusty yard with a chicken coop.

“Prince Mael,” she said abruptly. “My poor captive love.”

“Ye gods!”

“I beg you, don’t tell a soul. They might kill my babe if they knew that Eldidd had a royal bastard here in town. I’ve told everyone that her father was one of the king’s riders, Dagwyn his name was, who was killed in last year’s fighting. Lady Gweniver’s been helping me, you see. I guess Dagwyn was quite a lad with the lasses, and everyone believed it of him without thinking twice.”

“Is Gweniver the only one who knows?”

“Just that, not even Ricyn.” She paused to look into the cradle with a wry smile. “I had to tell someone, and Gweniver is a priestess, no matter what else she may be. It’s sad, though. Ricyn comes here sometimes and gives me coin for his friend’s daughter. Little Ebrua seems to mean much to him.”

“Then it’s best that he never learn the truth. But, here, how did this happen? Can you fly through the air like a bird?”

“Oh, I climbed the stairs to the tower, sure enough,” she said, half laughing. “But not long after you left, the prince got a fever, and all the chirurgeons were gone with the army. So Orivaen sent for me to keep their bit of booty alive. Ye gods, I felt so sorry for Mael, and Orivaen allowed me to visit him like you used to. Mael offered to teach me to read and write, you see, just to have somewhat to pass his time. So I had my lessons, and we grew to be friends, and well—” She gave an eloquent shrug of one shoulder.

“I see. Does he know about the child?”

“Oh, how could he not know? My poor captive love.”

When he returned to the dun, Nevyn made a point of going up to the tower to see the prince. Although his pleasant chamber had changed not at all, Mael was a man now. Tall, filled out, he paced gravely round the room instead of throwing himself about in an agony of impatience. He was also dead pale, his alabaster skin making his raven hair look even darker. With a start Nevyn realized that it had been seven years since the prince had been out in the sun.

“You can’t know how much it gladdens my heart to see you,” Mael said. “I missed my tutor badly when he left.”

“My apologies, but the dweomer calls a man down many a strange road. I seem to have left you some comfort, though. I’ve spoken to Gavra.”

The prince turned scarlet and looked away.

“Ah, well,” he said after a moment. “It’s strange, truly. There was a time when I would have thought that a common-born woman was beneath my notice. Now I wonder what Gavra could possibly want with a wretch like me.”

“Your Highness has had a harsh Wyrd, truly.”

“Oh, not as harsh as many. I’ve grown tired of pitying myself, you see. Some men are like hawks, dying young in battle. I’m a little finch, kept in a royal cage and dreaming of trees. But it’s a nice cage, and there’s plenty of seed in my bowl.”

“True enough.”

“The books you left me have become more and more of a comfort, too. And Gavra found me an interesting thing down at the bookseller’s in the temple of Wmm. It’s a compendium of works by a philosopher named Ristolyn, who wrote in the Dawntime. Was he a Rhwman?”