Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Most nobly put. Then it would please me to settle some land near Cerrmor upon you, as a reward for your long years of service.”

“The king is most generous, but he should save such favors for a younger man. I have kin who will shelter me, and it’s to his kin that an old man’s mind turns.”

When he left Cerrmor, Nevyn rode to Cannobaen to see Mael and Gavra. Although there was open warfare along the Eldidd border, in his guise of shabby old herbman he easily slipped the lines and made his way along the Eldidd coast. Late on a golden summer day, when the wild rose bloomed along the road, he reached the dun. Over the gates the old crest of the princes of Aberwyn had been taken down, and a new device hung there, a pair of grappling badgers and the motto: We hold on.

When Nevyn led his horse and mule inside, Mael ran to greet him with a shout. He was tanned and vigorous, grinning as he grabbed Nevyn’s hand and clasped it between both of his.

“What are you doing here, away from all the important affairs of the kingdom?” Mael said. “It gladdens my heart to see you.”

“Well, Glyn’s dead, and I left the court.”

“Dead? I hadn’t heard the news.”

“You look sad, my friend.”

“In a way, I am. Whatever his reasons, Glyn was the most generous patron a scholar ever had. He fed me for twenty years, didn’t he? Many a lord’s got a fulsome dedication for a cursed sight less than that. But come in, come in. Gavra will be pleased to see you, and we’ve got a new daughter to show you.”

Besides the new daughter, Mael had another treasure to share, a very rare book indeed, which he had found at the temple of Wmm during one of his rare visits to Aberwyn. At night they took turns reading aloud from this early translation of a dialogue by the Rhwman sage Tull Cicryn, and stayed up late many a time discussing these rare thoughts from the Dawntime age.

“I spent a wretched lot of coin on this,” Mael remarked at one point. “Gavra thought I was daft, and mayhap she’s right. But the priests said it’s the only book of Cicryn’s that came over in the great exile.”

“It is, and it’s a pity we don’t have more. The old tale runs that Cicryn was a man much like you, a prince of the Rhwmanes who fell from power because he backed the wrong claimant to the Rhwman throne. He devoted the rest of his life to philosophy.”

“Well, I hope his exile wasn’t too harsh, but it was worth it to have these Tuscan Talks of his. I intend to include his arguments against suicide in my new book. That central image of his is most apt and striking, where he says that we’re like watchmen for an army, appointed by the gods for reasons we can’t know, and so to kill yourself is to desert your post.”

“As I seem to recall pointing out to a very young prince a very long time ago.”

Mael laughed easily.

“So you did, and my tutor was right enough. Here, I’ve been meaning to remember to tell you somewhat. You’re welcome to stay here the rest of your life if you want. I can’t offer you courtly splendor, but Cannobaen’s warm in the winter.”

“Most generous of you, and truly, I’m tempted, but I have kin to go to.”

“Kin? Of course, you must have kin. Here I’ve been thinking that dweomermen must spring full grown from the ground.”

“Like frogs from warm mud? Well, we’re not as strange as all that—not quite, anyway.”

When Nevyn left, he slipped out early one dawn before the family was awake, simply to spare everyone a bitter parting. As he rode away, he looked back to see the pale glow of the Cannobaen light, high on its tower, and knew that he would never see Mael again. He wished that he really did have kin to go to, but, of course, what distant relatives he did have were all at one or the other of the warring courts, which he would have to avoid for a time. Quite simply, he needed to pretend to die. After a good many years another Nevyn the herbman could reappear in places that had once known him without people asking embarrassing questions about his unusually long life.

He decided to head for some outlying place in Cantrae territory, where he could bring his skills to the common folk of the torn kingdom. He wondered where he would find Brangwen again and if perhaps she was already alive somewhere in a new body. He could do nothing but follow his intuitions and let the chance that was more than chance guide him. With a long, painful sigh, he turned his horse onto the north-running road. For all that his long life would have seemed wonderful to other men, he was very tired.

And as for Mael, Lord Cannobaen, he and his wife lived many a long, happy year, finally dying within a few days of each other of old age and nothing more. As his reputation for wisdom grew, he became known as “Mael the Seer,” being given the title of that class of men known as “vates” in the Dawntime. Although in Deverry folk would have called him Mael y Gwaedd, in the Eldidd way of speaking, his name became Maelwaedd, a title passed to all his descendants down the long years.

SUMMER, 1063

You must never speak of “binding” a spirit into a crystal or talisman. If the spirit chooses to serve you in this way, well and good, because it will gain knowledge and power as its reward, but let us leave this talk of binding and subjugation to the Dark Path.

— The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

It was a beautiful sunny day, and the sun sparkled on the waters of the River Lit. Lord Camdel, once Master of the King’s Bath, sang as he rode beside the river, just snatches of songs, jumbled in no particular order, because he was having a great deal of trouble remembering the words. He was, in fact, having trouble remembering anything at all, such as the reason he was riding through the lonely hills of the province of Yr Auddglyn. From time to time the question would occur to him, but no matter how long he pondered it, he never found an answer. It merely seemed perfectly correct that he would be there, hundreds of miles from court, with a mysterious packet of jewels in his saddlebags. He knew he’d stolen the jewels, but he could no longer remember why, or who the owner was.

“I must be drunk,” he said to his chestnut gelding. “But why am I drunk out here?”

The gelding snorted as if wondering the same thing.

A few miles on, the river road curved sharply, and as he rounded the bend, Camdel saw three men on horseback. In his muddled way he knew that they were waiting for him. Of course, it was Sarcyn and Alastyr, and that third man was doubtless some servant. Doubtless he was here to buy some opium with those jewels. At last it all made sense.

“Well met, my friend,” Alastyr said. “Are you ready to come with us?”

Camdel started to agree, but suddenly a thought came into his mind. Don’t! They’ll hurt you! The thought sounded so loudly, so urgently, that without a moment’s pause he wrenched his horse’s head around.

“Here!” Sarcyn spurred his mount after him.

Run!

Obediently Camdel kicked his horse, but just as it sprang to a gallop, it screamed in agony and reared. Camdel was thrown forward hard; he clung to its neck as it staggered. He saw a sword blade flash up and slit the horse’s throat. Barely in time, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and rolled off as the gelding went down. He staggered up, groping for the hilt of his sword. Then a sharp blow caught him across the back of the head, and he crumpled into darkness.

“Good work, Sarcyn,” Alastyr said. “Gan, get those saddlebags! We’ve got to get on our way fast.”