Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

As the warband mounted up, Nevyn had a chance to say a few words to Jill, who was yawning in the saddle.

“Camdel will sleep for some hours when you get back. Can I ask you to go sit with him when he wakes?”

“I will, truly. We don’t want him to be all alone, in case he remembers somewhat of what he’s been through.”

Nevyn’s heart ached. If only the little dolt could see it, he thought, she’d make such a splendid healer! Yet never could he force her Wyrd upon her, and he knew it. Until the warband was well out of sight, he waited, yawning some himself in the warm morning sun. Even his unnatural vitality had its limits. Somewhat wryly he reflected that tonight he’d have his first full night’s sleep in fifty-odd years.

Blaen’s men had already buried Alastyr and what was left of the farmer’s corpse up in the hills. Nevyn went to the ritual chamber, tore down the piece of velvet, then threw it into the hearth for the Wildfolk of Fire to dispose of. While it smoked and crackled, he rummaged round and found the farmer’s store of salt in a little crock and a couple of thin splints of wood of the sort used for transferring fire from a hearth to a candle. Since he had no incense, plain smoke would have to do.

When he returned to the chamber, the atmosphere already seemed a bit lighter, just from having that blasphemous symbol down from the wall. Although he wanted to do the banishings immediately, the chamber had secrets to tell him that would be lost once he did the working. He sat down cross-legged in front of a brown stain of Alastyr’s blood, laid the salt and splints aside, then slowed his breathing until his mind was perfectly focused. He built an image of a six-pointed star until it glowed as two interlaced triangles, one red, one blue. Slowly he pushed the image out of his mind until it seemed to stand in front of him.

In the center hexagon he visualized Alastyr’s corpse as he’d first seen it at dawn, then sent his mind backward in time, at first only imagining the room as it would have looked by candlelight. Since the murder was so recent, true vision replaced his imagination in a few seconds. He saw the blond apprentice kneeling on guard at his master’s head. His mouth was twisted into a small, terrifying smile as Alastyr twitched and writhed in his trance; then his hand went to his belt and drew his dagger. For a while he paused, as if savoring the moment, then plunged the dagger into the helpless man’s heart, over and over. Since he didn’t care to watch the blows, Nevyn broke the vision and withdrew the star into himself.

“So that was my unexpected help, was it? And he must be the one who took Alastyr’s books and other ritual objects, too. Well, assuming that he had any with him.”

The Wildfolk crouched in the corners all nodded to indicate that, indeed, Alastyr had traveled with all the usual impediment of a dark master. They were a pitiful lot of spirits, all twisted and deformed by Alastyr’s meddling.

“And yet he left the cloth behind. Was he in a hurry because we were coming?’

Again they told him yes.

“Is that why he didn’t kill Camdel?”

They shook their heads no. One black gnome with protruding fangs lay down on the floor and pretended to cower in fear, while another stood over him, clawed hand raised as if it held a knife. Then it pantomimed kneeling down, sheathing the knife, and patted the other gnome gently on the shoulder.

“By the hells! Do you mean he pitied Camdel?”

They nodded a solemn yes.

“Now, I never would have thought that! Huh. Well, my friends, it’s no affair of yours. Soon you’ll be free of those ugly shapes. Help me perform the banishings, and then you can go to your kings.”

When they leaped up, he felt their joy washing over him as tangibly as water.

“Is he awake?” Rhodry said.

“Sort of.” Jill sounded doubtful. “It’s hard to tell.”

Rhodry walked into the chamber and forced himself to look at Camdel, who lay on top of the bed with his shirt off. He was filthy, bruised, and sliced here and there with thin lines of scabs. At last he opened his eyes and looked up warily, as if he expected Rhodry to give him a few more scars.

“Do you want somewhat to eat?” Jill said.

“I don’t,” Camdel whispered. “Water?”

All the time that Jill was filling a cup from a pitcher, Camdel stared at Rhodry in wide-eyed fear.

“Oh, here, don’t you remember me from court? Rhodry Maelwaedd, Aberwyn’s younger son.”

At that a faint smile flicked on his mouth, and he sat up to take the cup of water. Holding it in both hands, he sipped it slowly while looking around the chamber. The late-afternoon sun slanted in the windows and picked out the dust motes dancing in the golden shafts. As pleased as a child, Camdel smiled at the sight. Rhodry felt his revulsion rise and looked away. What if the dark masters had gotten hold of his Jill? Would they have done something similar to her? In his heart he made a solemn vow that if ever it was in his power to rid the world of any dark dweomermen, he would risk death, if he had to, to stamp them out.

“Rhoddo, would you call a page?” Jill said. “I want them to fetch up water so he can have a bath”

“A bath?” Camdel sounded drunk. “I’d like that.”

Rhodry left the chamber gratefully. Although he didn’t blame Camdel for a thing, he couldn’t bear the sight of him.

After he sent the pages on their errand, Rhodry joined Blaen at the honor table. Blaen was, of course, drinking mead, and for the first time in his life Rhodry decided to try to keep up with him. While his cousin watched with a small smile, he gulped down as much as he could in one swallow.

“Does a man good,” Blaen remarked. “Wipes things away.”

“It does, at that. Did you hear what—”

“—happened to Camdel? I did.”

Rhodry had another swallow of mead. Neither of them spoke again for hours.

In the foothills on the western side of Cwm Pecl, Sarcyn led his weary horse along a narrow track through stands of pine trees. He’d fled west blindly, seeking some isolated spot where he could hide for a day or two, but now it occurred to him that he’d better keep moving. Both the gwerbret’s men and, worse yet, the Master of the Aethyr would be hunting him down. Yet in his weariness he wondered if it might not be better to let the gwerbret hang him than to fall into the hands of the Dark Brotherhood. They would make his death last for weeks.

“But I have the books,” he whispered aloud. “Someday I’ll have the power to stand against them.”

Near sunset he found a valley with a stream and plenty of grass for his horse. He made camp, then scrounged some deadwood from the forested hillside and lit a small fire with his flint and steel. Although his stomach was growling, he ignored his hunger. He’d already eaten a meal that day, and he needed to eke out his meager store of provisions. For a while he stared into the fire and brooded over his plans. Scattered around the kingdom were a number of people who might shelter him for a few days at least. A few days were all he could afford to spend in one place, no matter how much he needed time to study Alastyr’s books. All at once he was too weary to think—remarkably weary and muddled, as he would realize later.

Like a child, he curled up on his blankets and fell asleep by the fire. When he woke, it was suddenly—at the touch of hands on his arms. He cried out, then struggled, kicking and writhing, but a leather cord slipped round his wrists and pulled tight, and a man fell across his knees and pinned him. By the light of the dying fire he could see his assailants, two light-skinned Bardek men in Deverry clothes. One lashed his wrists tight; the other, his ankles, even as he threw his weight this way and that. At last they were done, and he lay panting on the ground while they stood over him.