Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

Ricyn staggered to his feet and took a few steps, but only when he tripped over the lintel to the house did he realize he’d gotten turned around. The fire was already creeping down the walls inside. He got to his feet and stumbled toward Gweniver. Although every step stabbed him with pain, at last he reached her. He fell to his knees beside her, then hesitated, wondering if the Goddess would condemn him for this gesture. He felt sure that She would no longer care. He threw himself down, reached out, and pulled Gweniver into his arms until he could rest with his head on her chest. His last thought was a prayer to the Goddess, asking forgiveness if he were doing a wrong thing.

The Goddess was merciful. He bled to death before the flames reached him.

Nevyn was in the king’s tent at the encampment when he heard the shouting and hoofbeats that meant the army had returned. He grabbed a cloak and ran through the drizzling rain to the meadow, a mob of confusion as the men dismounted. He shoved his way through and found the king, handing over his reins to his orderly. Glyn’s face was stubbled and filthy, with a streak of another man’s blood on his cheek and a black smear of ashes on his pale, stiff hair.

“No one left alive,” he said. “We buried everyone we could find, but there was no trace of Gweniver and Ricyn. The Cantrae bastards had fired the dun, so most likely they were inside the roundhouse. At least they had a pyre, just like in the Dawntime.”

“They would have liked that. Well, so be it.”

“But we caught the Cantrae warband on the road— what was left of them, anyway. We wiped them out.”

Nevyn nodded, not trusting his voice. Gwen would have liked that best of all, he thought. The king turned away and called for someone to bring Alban to him. So pale and exhausted that he was staggering, the lad came to the king’s side.

“Can you do somewhat for him, Nevyn?” Glyn said. “I don’t want him getting a fever or suchlike after the splendid way he rode that message.”

The praise from the king himself broke Alban’s last resistance. He tossed his head once, then began to sob like the young lad he was. As Nevyn led him off to the chirurgeon, he had trouble holding back his own tears. It will happen again and again, he reminded himself, that someone you love will die long before you. He wanted to curse his bitter Wyrd, but the most bitter thing of all was knowing that he had only himself to blame.

INTERLUDE SPRING, 1063

A hunter who lays snares had better watch where he puts his feet.

— Old Deverry proverb

Of all the towns in all the wide kingdom of Deverry, the Westfolk only ever visited Cernmeton and Dun Gwerbyn, and them only rarely. The townsfolk in both places had a curious reaction whenever the People rode their way. In a kind of unconscious conspiracy, they simply refused to admit how different the elves were. Any child who asked about elven ears was told that this savage tribe cropped their babies’ ears. Any child who pointed out the strange cat-slit eyes was told to hold his tongue, or else his ears might get cropped the same way. The adults themselves, however, found it hard to look an elf in the eye, which was one reason that the People considered human beings shifty and untrustworthy.

Devaberiel, therefore, wasn’t surprised when the guards at Dun Gwerbyn’s gates first stared at him, then looked quickly away. They did the same to the others with him, Jennantar and Calonderiel, but they managed to take a good look at the two packhorses dragging travois, and finally, a string of twelve riderless horses.

“Have you come here to sell those?” the guard asked. “There’s taxes to pay if you have.”

“I’ve not. I’m bringing them as tribute to the tieryn.”

“Ah. Go on through, then.”

Although Jennantar and Calonderiel had been in Eldidd before, they’d never been inside the town, and Devaberiel noticed them looking scornfully at the grimy round houses, dripping smoke-stained thatch, and the narrow streets, curving in a seemingly aimless pattern. Devaberiel himself felt faintly uneasy about the way everything was crammed in together. You simply couldn’t get a clear view in a human town, no matter which way you looked.

“We’re not going to stay here long, are we?” Calonderiel muttered.

“Not very. You can leave straightaway, if you like, after we get the horses to the dun.”

“Oh, no. I want to see Rhodry again, and Cullyn, too.”

Cullyn they saw immediately, because he happened to be standing in the open gates of the dun when they puffed up the hill. With a shout of greeting he trotted down to meet them. Although Devaberiel had heard a good bit about the man who was considered the best swordsman in all Deverry, he was unprepared for the sight of him. Well over six feet tall, he was broad-shouldered and hard-muscled. An old scar slashed down his left cheek, and his blue eyes did nothing to dispel the grim impression. They were as hard and cold as a winter storm, even when he smiled and shook Calonderiel’s hand.

“Now, this is a gift from the gods,” Cullyn said. “It gladdens my heart to see you again.”

“And mine to see you,” said the warleader. “We’ve brought tribute to Lady Lovyan and young Rhodry.”

“Well, the lady will be glad to receive it.” His eyes turned even grimmer. “But Gwerbret Rhys of Aberwyn sent Rhodry in exile last fall.”

“What?” All three elves spoke at once.

“Just that. But come in, come in. I can tell you the tale over a tankard of the tieryn’s hospitality.”

As they led the horses up to the dun, Devaberiel felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

“Cullyn?” he said. “Then where’s Rhodry now?”

“Riding the long road as a silver dagger. Do you know what that means, good sir?”

“I do. Oh, ye gods, he could be anywhere in the wretched kingdom!”

As they came into the ward, servants and grooms came running, exclaiming over the horses. The elven breed, known as Western Hunters in Deverry, stood sixteen to eighteen hands, with broad chests and delicate heads. Although they were usually gray, buckskin, or roan, a few were a rich golden color, and those were the most prized. Although Devaberiel had brought a golden mare for his son to use as breeding stock, now he was tempted to take her back again. Come now, he told himself, I owe Lowa something for giving me a son.

The clatter and the shouting outside had apparently aroused Lovyan’s curiosity, because she came out of the broch and strolled over. Wearing a dress of red Bardek silk, kirtled with her clan’s red, white, and brown plaid, she walked as lithely as a young lass, but when she came close, Devaberiel’s heart was wrung for the second time that day. She was growing old, her face slashed by wrinkles, her hair heavily streaked with gray. She glanced his way, stiffened slightly, then looked at him as blandly as if they’d never met. His heart ached for her, and he cursed himself as a fool or worse for coming. She was growing old, while he still looked like a lad of twenty. It was one of those rare times in his life when he could find nothing to say.

“My lady Lovyan,” Calonderiel said with a bow. “Your Grace, tieryn of Dun Gwerbyn. We come to bring you tribute to your power and dominion.”

“My thanks, good sir. I’m most pleased to receive such a splendid gift. Come in and take the hospitality of my hall.”

Since he couldn’t refuse, Devaberiel followed. As a favor to Cullyn, Lovyan allowed him to join her and the guests at the honor table. Once they’d all been served mead, the captain told the story in detail of Rhodry’s exile. Although Calonderiel and Jennantar constantly interrupted to ask questions, Devaberiel found it hard to listen. He kept cursing himself for coming and causing such pain to both himself and to the woman he once had loved. When the tale was finished, everyone drank in silence for a moment. Devaberiel risked another glance at Lovyan only to find her looking at him. When their eyes met, for a moment her composure wavered, her eyes so haunted, her mouth so tense, that he feared she would weep. Then she looked away, and the moment passed.