Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Well, good men of the Westfolk,” she said, “will you shelter in my dun awhile?”

“My humble thanks for the honor, Your Grace,” Devaberiel said. “But my folk are used to wandering through grassland and forest. It makes us uneasy to be within stone walls. Would it displease Your Grace if we camped outside the town tonight, and then went on our way?”

“How can I refuse a favor to men whove just brought me such a splendid gift? Just two miles north I have a game preserve. I’ll give you a token for my forester, and you may camp there for as long as you please.”

And her eyes thanked him for taking himself away.

Yet they had a chance for a few private words while the servants brought the elves’ riding mounts and packhorses. Cullyn and the other two stood on the dun steps and talked among themselves with the earnestness of old comrades, but Lovyan gestured at the bard to follow her some paces away.

“Did you come here just to bring me horses?” she said.

“I didn’t. I came to see our son.”

“So. You know the truth about that, then?”

“I do. Lowa, please, forgive me. I never should have come, and I swear to you that you’ll never have to see me again.”

“It would be for the best. Rhodry must never know the truth. Do you realize that?”

“Of course. I only wanted a look at the lad.”

She smiled briefly.

“He looks much like you, but he has the raven-dark Eldidd hair. He’s a handsome lad, our Rhodry.”

He caught her hand and squeezed it, then let it go before anyone could see.

“I wonder if I’ll ever lay eyes on him,” he said. “I don’t dare ride any farther east. They haven’t learned how to ignore our eyes and ears in the rest of the kingdom.”

“True spoken. You know, I’d always heard that your folk were long-lived, but I didn’t realize how young you stayed.” Her voice caught. “Or is the tale true, and you live forever?”

“Not forever, but for a truly long time. And we do age, but not until we’re ready to die. That’s how we know it’s time to prepare for our last ride.”

“Indeed?” She looked away and unconsciously touched the wrinkles on her cheek. “Perhaps we have the best of it, then, because while we age early, we’re never burdened with knowing when we’ll die.”

He sighed, remembering his grief when his father’s hair began to turn white and his vigor fade.

“Truly,” he said, “you may have the better bargain.”

He walked quickly away, because tears were gathering in his throat.

When they rode out, Devaberiel said not a word to the others, and they allowed him his silence until they reached the hunting preserve. Lovyan’s forester took them to an open dell where a stream ran and there was good grass for the horses, remarked that there were plenty of deer this year, then rode off fast to avoid spending time with Westfolk. They pitched the red tent, tethered the horses, then gathered a few sticks of firewood to add to their stock of dried manure for a fire, and still Devaberiel said nothing. Finally Calonderiel could stand it no longer.

“Coming here was a really stupid thing to do,” he remarked.

“The warleader is known far and wide for his graceful tact,” Devaberiel snapped. “By the Dark Sun herself, why do you have to pour bitter gall into a man’s cup when he’s thirsty?”

“Well, sorry, but—”

“You’re forgetting the rose ring,” Jennantar broke in. “The dweomer said Rhodry should have it.”

“Now, that’s true,” Calonderiel said. “So I suppose Dev had some excuse.”

Snarling under his breath, Devaberiel went to unpack a skin of mead from the travois. Jennantar followed, squatting down next to him.

“Don’t take everything Cal says to heart. He’s always like that.”

“Then I’m cursed glad I don’t march in one of his squadrons.”

“It takes some getting used to. But I was wondering, how are you going to get that ring to your lad? Do you have any idea?”

“I was thinking about that on the ride here. I’ve got another son, you know, who had a Deverry mother. He looks more like her folk than he does ours.”

“Of course—Ebañy.” Jennantar looked worried. “But are you really going to trust him with the ring?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I have my own doubts. Ye gods, he’s a wild lad! Maybe I never should have taken him away from his mother, but the poor lass couldn’t support a child on her own, and her father was livid with rage that she had one. I don’t understand these Deverry men sometimes. They don’t have to carry the baby, do they, so what business of theirs is it if their daughter’s got one? But anyway, if I lay a father’s charge on Ebañy to get the ring to his brother, he’ll doubtless do it. It’s just the sort of wild escapade that would appeal to him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? You never know with that lad. I’ll just have to put out the word that I want to see him and hope that it reaches him, sooner rather than later.”

By this time, the eleventh century after the Great Migration, Cerrmor had grown to a city of some hundred thousand people. Not only did it stretch far up the river, but rich merchants had built splendid houses on the cliffs above, far away from the noise and dirt of the town. The dun where once Glyn had ruled as king had been razed a hundred years before, and a new, even larger, one built for the gwerbrets of Cerrmor. Down near the waterfront, however, was a section of town that had nothing splendid about it. Brothels, cheap inns, and taverns stood close together in a maze of winding streets and alleys that decent citizens never entered, except for the gwerbret’s wardens, who entered there far more frequently than the inhabitants would have liked. It was called the Bilge.

Whenever he went to the Bilge, Sarcyn always walked quickly, kept his eyes moving, and wrapped his aura tight around him, a dweomer that made him very hard to notice. He wasn’t truly invisible—anyone walking straight toward him would have seen that he was there—but rather he caught no one’s attention, especially when he walked close to walls or in shadows. That particular afternoon it was overcast, and several people nearly bumped into him as they strode past, unmindful that they shared the street with someone else. Still, he kept his hand on his sword hilt.

Since it was late in the day, the streets were growing crowded. Sailors with pay to spend strolled along through street vendors hawking cheap food and cheaper trinkets. A few whores were already out, the kind known as “cobblestones” because they had only the dark back alleys to take their clients to. Here and there he saw a group of Bardek sailors, their brown faces neatly painted, their dark hair oiled for their night of liberty. Once six city wardens marched past, keeping a tight formation and carrying their quarterstaves at the ready. Sarcyn ducked into a doorway and stayed there until they were well past. Then he went on his way, moving quickly through the confusing maze. Although he hadn’t been in Cerrmor for some time, he knew the Bilge well. He’d been born there.

Finally he reached his destination, a three-story stone roundhouse with a freshly thatched roof and neatly whitewashed walls. Gwenca could afford to keep up her whorehouse because she catered to a better class of clients than mere sailors. He paused at the door, released his aura, then stepped into the ground-floor tavern. Arranged around the central spiral staircase were wooden tables, standing on clean straw. A peat fire smoldered on the hearth to take off the chill, because the young women sitting on cushioned benches were either naked or wearing only gauzy Bardek shifts. A lass wearing nothing but a square of black silk tied around her hips hurried over. Her blue eyes were lined with Bardek kohl, and her long blond hair smelled of roses.