Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

Besides, they’d come so close to getting the lass, too close to give up now. Alastyr was sure that if he could take Jill alive, he would be able to trade her to Nevyn for a promise of safe passage out of Deverry—with the stone.

Although Jill wanted to wait at the patrol station for Rhodry, no silver dagger could refuse a direct order from a gwerbret’s captain to take an important message to the gwerbret himself, not without getting flogged, at any rate. Since Sunrise was too weary to risk riding, the groom gave her a sturdy black to start her journey. The captain had already given her an official token; as long as she was riding on his grace’s business, any of Blaen’s vassals would give her a fresh horse and a meal to speed the message on its way.

“Now, listen,” Jill said to the groom. “Sunrise had cursed well better be here when Rhodry arrives.”

“And what do you think we are, horse thieves?”

“There’s many a great lord who’s ‘traded’ for a horse whose owner had no mind for a trade.”

“True spoken, but your nag’s safe enough. I’ll tell you somewhat, silver dagger. We men of Cwm Pecl hate horse thieves the worst of all the thieves in the world. A horse thief doesn’t just get his hands cut off. He gets fifteen lashes and a public hanging.”

“Splendid. Then I’ll be on my way with a peaceful heart.”

Jill left the patrol station at a fast pace, alternately walking and trotting until she came free of the mountains. On the easier slopes of the foothills, she could gallop every now and then. Just before noon she arrived at the dun of a noble lord, got her meal and a fresh horse, and galloped on again. Quickly the hills fell away behind her, and she was riding in the rolling meadowlands of Cwm Pecl. Although much of the province was unfit for farming, it was perfect for stock. In the well-watered meadows among stands of white birches, she saw plenty of horse herds, grazing peacefully while mounted herdsmen kept watch, or white cows with rusty-red ears lying in the shade to chew their noontide cuds.

On the flatter land she could keep up a gallop-trot pace, and she changed horses twice more. The city was a good fifty miles from the patrol station, a distance that only a speeded courier like herself could hope to cover in one day. By her third change the sun was low in the sky, and the lord who was giving her the fresh horse remarked that the gwerbret’s courier was welcome to shelter the night. Jill considered, but one of her dweomer-warnings cut through her like a knife. She had to go on, and as fast as possible.

“My thanks, my lord, but my message is truly urgent.”

“No doubt you know best, then, silver dagger.”

When she left, she rode out at a full gallop, and the dweomer-cold rode with her. Someone knew where she was, and that someone was following her to work her harm. After her broken night she came close to falling asleep in the saddle every time she let the horse walk or pause for a rest, but she kept rousing herself and kicking her mount to a trot to keep them both lively. Whenever she passed anyone on the road, she would yell at them to clear off in the gwerbret’s name. With startled shouts they would move aside and let her by.

At last she crested a low hill and saw below her the gwerbret’s city of Dun Hiraedd, spreading on either side of a river and surrounded with high stone walls. The river was glittering so brightly in the sunset that Jill could barely look at it with her exhausted eyes. Sunset. The town gates would be closing for the night. She kicked a burst of speed out of her horse and charged, dashing up to the gates just as they were swinging shut.

“A message for the gwerbret!” she yelled. “From the Cwm Pecl pass!”

The gates held open. As a guard ran out to meet her, she swung down and presented the token with a flourish.

“Well and good, silver dagger,” the guard said. “I’ll take you up to the dun straightaway.”

When the gates swung shut behind them, Jill felt a relief so strong that she knew it had to be dweomer-in-spired. Here, for a little while, she’d be safe.

The city guard led her through a maze of cobbled streets and close-packed roundhouses. Windows shone with lantern light; people were hurrying home after a day’s trade; here and there a scent of cooking drifted from a house and made Jill’s stomach growl. At the far side of town stood a low artificial hill, ringed with stone walls. There were more gates, more guards, but the token brought them into the ward of Blaen’s enormous dun, where a triple broch towered over sheds and stables. After a page took Jill’s horse, the city guard led her inside the great hall.

The room gleamed with firelight and candles. Jill stood blinking by the door while the guard went to speak to the gwerbret. Down at one hearth servants were putting out the evening meal for a warband of a hundred men at long tables. Near the honor hearth, the gwerbret dined alone. When she looked at the elegant stonework, the fine tapes-tries, the silver goblets and candelabra on the tables, Jill felt like cursing out the entire patrol. Why hadn’t the dolts sent a message to the gwerbret’s captain, instead of making her barge in like this on a great lord at his dinner? A dirty silver dagger like her should have been waiting outside in the ward.

Blaen himself was hardly reassuring. When the guard spoke to him, he rose, tossing his head arrogantly and standing with a proud set to his shoulders. He was far younger than she’d expected, about two-and-twenty, and he reminded her strikingly of Rhodry, with dark-blue eyes and raven-dark hair, though, of course, he was nowhere as good-looking as her man.

“Come here, silver dagger,” he snapped. “What’s this message?”

Jill hurried over and started to kneel, but she was so saddle-weary that she lost her balance and nearly fell spraddled.

“Your pardon, Your Grace,” she stammered. “I’ve been riding for two days and fought a battle before that.”

“By the asses of the gods! Then get up off the cursed floor and have a chair. Page! Get some mead! Get a trencher! Move! This lad must be half-starved.”

Before the startled pages could intervene, Blaen grabbed her by the shoulders, helped her up, and sat her down in his chair. He shoved a goblet of mead into her hand, then perched on the edge of the table, his meal forgotten behind him.

“I’ll wager I can guess,” he said. “There’s been trouble in that demon-ridden pass again.”

“Just that, Your Grace.”

While Jill told the story, Blaen’s captain came over to listen. He was a heavyset man in his thirties, with a faded scar slashed across one cheek. When she finished, the gwerbret turned to him.

“Comyn, take fifty men and a change of horses and leave tonight. I—here, wait a moment.” Blaen grabbed a slice of roast beef from a golden platter and tossed it to Jill. “Help yourself to bread, lad. Now, listen, Comyn. Chase these whoreson bandits into Yr Auddglyn. If Gwerbret Ygwimyr has the gall to complain about it, tell him it means war if we don’t have their heads on pikes in a week or two.”

“I will, Your Grace, and I’ll send back a messenger the minute there’s somewhat to report.”

Jill went on eating as they worked out the details. When Comyn left to pick out his men, Blaen took his goblet of mead and gulped a good bit down as fast as if it were water. A waiting page stepped forward smoothly and refilled it.

“Looks like you’ve barely touched yours, lad,” Blaen said. “What kind of silver dagger are you to drink so slow? What’s your name, by the way?”

“Gilyan, Your Grace, and I’m not a lad but a lass.”

Blaen stared, then tossed back his head with a laugh.

“I must be growing old and blind,” he remarked, still smiling. “So you are. What makes a lass take to the long road?”