Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

— The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

About a week’s ride from Aberwyn, on what might as well have been the western border of Eldidd, since no one lived beyond it, a dun stood at the top of a grassy cliff overlooking the ocean. A stone wall, badly in need of repair, ringed a big ward where weeds poked up through the cobbles. Inside stood a squat stone broch, a clutter of wood sheds, and a narrow tower like a stork standing among chickens. Every afternoon Avascaen climbed the hundred fifty spiraling steps to the flat top of the tower. Using a heavy winch and pulley, he would haul up loads of firewood, which his sons had put in the sling far down below, and stack them under the little shelter above the beacon pit. Just at sunset he would light a torch and fire the first load. Not far out to sea lay submerged rocks, a little ripple of white water from his vantage, but virtually invisible to a ship sailing toward them. Any captain who saw the Cannobaen light knew that he should swing wide, out to the safety of the open sea.

Not that many ships had sailed their way in the last few years. Thanks to the war for the Deverry throne, trade was falling off badly. There were times, especially when the cold winter winds whipped under the shelter, when Avascaen wondered why he even bothered to keep tending the fire. But if just one ship founders, he would tell himself, just think of how you’ll feel then. Besides, Prince Mael himself had enjoined him to keep this light, all those years ago before the prince rode off to war and never returned.

Avascaen was training his two sons, Maryl and Egamyn, to take over the job of lighthouse keeper when he died. Maryl, a stolid sort of lad, was glad enough of the work and their somewhat privileged position in the village of Cannobaen. Egamyn, however, who was only fourteen, grumbled, cursed, and constantly threatened to run away to become a rider with the king’s army. Avascaen would generally give him a cuff on the head and tell him to hold his tongue.

“The prince asked me and my family to tend the light,” Avascaen would say. “And tend it we will.”

“Oh, here, Da,” Egamyn always answered. “I’ll wager you never see the wretched prince again.”

“Maybe not, but if I do, then he’ll hear I did what I said I was going to do. I’m like a badger. I hold on.”

Avascaen, his wife, Scwna, and the lads all lived in the great hall of the broch, where they cooked, slept, and generally made do. The upper stories were shut up to save heat in the winter. Twice a year Scwna aired out each chamber, wiped the dust off the furniture, and swept the floors, just in case the prince should return to his country lodge one fine day. Out in the ward they tended a kitchen garden, a few chickens, and some young hogs. The farmers in the nearby village supplied the rest of their needs as part of their taxes to the Cannobaen light. The farmers also supplied the firewood, which came from the vast primeval oak forests stretching to the north and west.

“We’ve got a good life,” Avascaen would tell Egamyn. “You should thank the gods that things are peaceful, like.”

Egamyn would only shake his stubborn dark head and mutter that things were tedious. Aside from the farmers, company rarely came to Dun Cannobaen.

It was, therefore, quite an event when someone did turn up at the gates one afternoon. Since he slept all morning, Avascaen was just starting his day with a stroll when he saw a rider on a chestnut horse coming up the road followed by two gray mules heavily laden with canvas packs. When the rider dismounted, Avascaen realized that it was a woman, stout and middle-aged. Although she wore a dress, she wore a pair of dirty brigga under it so she could ride astride like a man. Her gray hair was caught back in a clasp, marking her an unmarried woman, and her dark eyes brimmed with good humor. The oddest thing of all was the color of her hands, a dirty brownish-blue all the way up to her elbows.

“Good morrow, good sir,” she said. “I’ll wager you’re surprised to see me riding up.”

“Well, that I am, but you’re most welcome, anyway. May I ask your name?”

“Primilla of Abernaudd, good sir. I’m out here looking for rare plants and suchlike for the dyers’ guild in Abernaudd.”

“Fancy that! Well, won’t you take our hospitality? I can offer you a meal, if you don’t mind having breakfast for your dinner, anyway.”

Primilla minded not in the least. While Maryl tended her horse and mules, she agreeably pitched into a trencher of bacon and a bowl of barley porridge. She was full of precious news from Abernaudd, the royal city of Eldidd, and Scwna and Egamyn listened avidly as she described the goings-on in the town.

“And I don’t suppose there’s any news of my Prince Mael,” Avascaen asked finally.

“Well, now, there is, and sad news at that. His wife just died, poor thing, of a fever.” Primilla shook her head sadly. “A pitiful thing, her never getting to see her husband again.”

Tears welled in Scwna’s eyes. Avascaen felt a bit rocky himself.

“And is there talk of disclaiming my prince and putting his son in his place?”

“Well, there is, and what will you think of that?”

“Mael’s the prince I swore to serve, and serve him I will. I’m like a badger, good dame. I hold on.”

Primilla smiled as if she found his loyalty delightful, a great relief after all the people who mocked him for it. As he considered her eyes—shrewd, really, for all the jolly look of her round face and pink cheeks—Avascaen wondered about her.

That night, when the moon was at its zenith, Primilla panted up the stone steps to join Avascaen on top of the tower. She helped lay the second load of wood on the beacon, then strolled over to the edge of the tower for a look at the view. Far down below them, the full moon was laying a silver road across the rippled sea, stretching out to the featureless horizon. In the clear spring air the stars seemed to be a mere arm’s reach high.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Avascaen said. “But few bother to come up for a look, except for me and my lads.”

“You must have strong legs, good sir, from all these cursed steps.”

“Oh, you get used to it in a bit, truly.”

As the fresh wood caught, gold light danced around them. Primilla leaned comfortably on the stone guardrail and contemplated the beach far below, where breakers rolled in like silver ghosts.

“Now, begging your pardon and all,” Avascaen said, “but it’s a rare thing to find a woman traveling alone. Aren’t you afraid of danger on the roads?”

“Oh, I can take care of myself when I have to,” Primilla said with a chuckle. “And besides, there’s not a lot of folk out here to give me trouble. It’s worth the trip, truly, to poke about in the woodlands and find my plants. You see, I’ve been a dyer all my life, learning my trade young, practicing it for many a year now. I’ve learned enough to try this plant or that, like, and find better colors for my guild. We’ll study what I’ve brought back, make up some bits of cloth dyed with it, and see how it washes and all. You never know when you’ll find somewhat worth a small fortune.” She held up her discolored hands. “Here’s my whole life, good sir, stained right into my skin.”

Since Avascaen was a great believer in taking pains to do things right, he could see her point. But occasionally, after Primilla was long gone, he would remember the woman with blue hands and wonder what she’d been up to.

The king’s city of Abernaudd spanned the Elaver some two miles upstream of the seacoast and the harbor. Behind ramparted stone walls, cobbled streets marched up and down terraced hills. At the top of the highest hill stood the royal dun, flying the blue-and-silver banner of the Dragon throne, while down in the valley huddled the stinking, close-packed huts of the poor. In Abernaudd how high up one lived showed literally how high one stood on the social scale. As head of the dyers’ guild, Primilla lived on the crest of a low hill in a spacious compound that came with her position. With her in the three-story roundhouse lived her five apprentices, who waited on her to earn their training. Out in back in the cobbled yard stood long sheds, housing the master workrooms of the guild. The cloth dyed there under her personal supervision went to the royal household for the guild’s taxes.