Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

As soon as Nevyn went into his trance, Jill moved back among the trees while Rhodry stayed close to the old man. The pale moonlight shone on the stream and turned the white birches into ghost trees. In the dweomer-touched silence, she was painfully aware of the sound of her own breathing. Nevyn lay so still that she kept wanting to kneel down beside him to see if he was alive. All at once she heard a sound behind her and spun, her sword raised and ready.

“Only a rabbit,” Rhodry said.

Since she knew he could see in the dark, she turned back, keeping her eyes on the crest of the hill, looking for a movement that would mean enemies stirring in the night. Suddenly Nevyn moaned. Jill stepped forward just as he flopped over onto his side. With a muddled thought that he’d been poisoned, she flung herself down beside him. He half sat up, then flopped sideways, but all the time his eyes were shut tight and his breathing was slow and deliberate. He kicked out, narrowly missing Rhodry, then heaved himself onto his stomach with a scuttling motion like a crab that carried him a foot away. When his head barely missed a rock, Jill grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to pin him, but his trance strength overwhelmed her. Easily he flung her off and pitched to one side. Swearing, Rhodry flung himself down to help.

For what seemed a grotesque eternity they wrestled with Nevyn’s body as he twisted, jerked, and flung his arms about. Once he landed Rhodry a hard blow on the jaw, but though Rhodry swore even louder, he hung on. Jill could only pray to the Goddess to keep away any enemies that might be approaching. At last Nevyn went limp, and she could just see him smile in the moonlight. His mouth worked as if he were speaking; then he lay utterly still.

“Oh, ye gods,” she said. “Is he going to die?”

Just then he opened his eyes and grinned at her.

“What have I been doing?” Nevyn said. “Flopping?”

“Like a fish on a riverbank.” Rhodry let go his hold.

“It happens now and then in trances.” The old man sat up, looking around as if he were a bit dazed. “Did one of you kill Alastyr’s body?”

“We didn’t,” Jill said. “We stayed with you.”

“Then Blaen and his men must be at the farm already. No time to explain. We’ve got to hurry.”

And yet they reached the farm just at the same time as did Blaen and the warband. At the head of his men the gwerbret trotted over to them. In the gray dawn light he looked profoundly annoyed.

“Thanks be to every god that you’re safe,” Blaen snapped. “We scoured the hills for you.”

“I owe you an apology, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “But the battle’s already over.”

Camdel heard them all ride into the farmyard. He went tense, every muscle in his body spasming in panic when he realized that he wasn’t going to starve to death but be rescued. With a moan he heaved himself to his knees, the ankle chain clanking. It was just long enough for him to stand and take a few steps. Lying on the kitchen table was a long-bladed knife, which would do to slit his throat or his wrists if only he could reach it. He wanted death, lusted for it, the one thing that could wipe away his shame and make him forget the hideous truths about himself that Sarcyn had taught him.

The chain let him reach the table, but the knife lay at the end of its six-foot span. He leaned over the edge, stretched out, couldn’t get up far enough to lie on it, stretched and stretched but could just brush the handle with his fingertips. From outside came voices, and two that he recognized: Gwerbret Blaen and Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd of Aberwyn, here to see what had become of the Master of the King’s Bath. With a stretch that ached his shoulder he touched the knife. He could just close two fingers on the handle scissorlike, but as he began to pull it toward him, his aching hand spasmed and knocked the knife to the floor. It bounced on the edge of the hearthstone and lay far out of his reach.

Sobbing, gasping for breath, he let himself fall from the table and crouched in the straw. Why hadn’t Sarcyn killed him? Perhaps his master knew he wanted to die and left him alive as the last torment of all. Blaen will hang you, he told himself, because you stole from the High King. He clung to his one comfort, that soon he’d be dangling from a rope in Dun Hiraedd’s market square. Outside the voices came closer.

“I only pray we find Camdel alive.” That was Blaen, who doubtless wanted the pleasure of hanging him.

“So do I,” said an unfamiliar voice. “But I warn you, Your Grace, he might be mad.”

“Ah, the poor lad!” Blaen’s voice was full of pity. “Well, no man can hold him accountable for this, from what you’ve told me.”

Camdel felt his head jerk back. Blaen wasn’t going to hang him. He was forgiven, and he would have to live with what he knew about himself. He began to scream over and over as he tossed himself from side to side. Dimly he heard running footsteps and men shouting but he went on screaming until someone knelt in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders. He looked up into Blaen’s face, twisted in horror and pity both.

“Kill me,” Camdel stammered. “For the love of every god, I beg you to kill me.”

Although Blaen’s mouth worked, he couldn’t speak. An old man with a thick shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes knelt beside the gwerbret.

“Camdel, look at me,” he said. “I’m a healer, and I’m going to help you. Just look at me, lad.”

His voice was so kind that Camdel did what he asked. The blue eyes swelled to fill the world, as if he were looking into a lake of clear water. When the old man laid a hand on his arm, he felt warmth running into his blood, a soothing, calming warmth that made all his cramped muscles ease into peace.

“Later we’ll have to talk about what’s happened to you, but for now there’s no need for you to remember all that.”

Camdel felt drunk, a pleasant, giggling sort of drunk.

“He’s forgetting already, aren’t you, lad? Of course you are. You only know that you’re very ill, and that we’re going to help you.”

Camdel nodded in agreement, thinking that his long illness had left him fevered and confused. He clung to the old man’s hand and wept in gratitude for his rescue.

As soon as he saw how broken Camdel was, Rhodry backed out of the kitchen in a hurry. The man was mad, his mind torn to pieces and the pieces scattered forever—or so Rhodry saw it. Death in battle he could face, but this misery? Feeling sick to his stomach, he wandered around to the main door of the house, where a pair of Blaen’s men were keeping guard.

“Did they find him, my lord?” Comyn said.

“Never call me that again.”

“My apologies, silver dagger.”

“Well and good, then, but find him they did, and it’s not pretty.”

Comyn shivered.

“I sent some of the lads out to search the farmstead,” the captain remarked. “Just in case there’s someone lurking around, like.”

“Good idea. Has anyone been inside yet?”

“No one wants to go, and I can’t order a man to do somewhat I’m afraid to do myself.”

“Well, you’ve got a silver dagger riding at your orders. I’ll volunteer. Better than letting Blaen do it and put himself at who knows what dweomer-soaked risk.”

Comyn hesitated, then handed Rhodry his shield.

“Don’t know what you’ll find in there, do you, now?”

“I don’t.” Rhodry settled the shield on his left arm. “My thanks.”

Rhodry drew his sword as Comyn kicked open the door. The farmhouse was big, about sixty feet in diameter, and like most houses of its type it was cut up like a pie into small wedge-shaped chambers, divided from one another by wickerwork partitions. Rhodry stepped into what had been a parlor of sorts with two wooden chairs, a carved chest sitting under a window, and on the wall a wooden shelf that proudly displayed three painted earthenware plates. The dust lay so thick on the floor that he left footprints.