Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

When they finished their conversation, Nevyn put out the fire, for the summer night was warm. On the hearthstone nearby sat Alastyr’s three books, which the dwarves had handed over to him. One was simply a copy of the Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid; the others, in the Bardek tongue, were called The Way of Power and The Warrior’s Sword, half pretentious garbage, half exceedingly dangerous procedures and rituals. Idly Nevyn opened The Warrior’s Sword.

“Yea, for all things shall be dominated by the Will of the true Warrior, down even unto the secret places of the Darkness, for it is most admirable and recondite a truth that they who fight under the Sigil of the …”

With a snort Nevyn slammed the book shut and tossed it aside.

“I wonder why those people can never write decently,” he remarked to the yellow gnome. “Recondite, indeed!”

The gnome scratched its stomach, then grabbed a handful of charcoal from the hearth and scattered it all over the carpet. Before Nevyn could grab it, it was gone. He was picking up the last of the bits when there was a knock at the door.

“It’s Jill.”

“Come in, child, come in.”

She stepped in, shutting the door, then leaning back against it as if she were weary.

“I’ve come to say farewell. Rhodry and I are leaving on the morrow.”

“Ye gods! So soon?”

“So soon. It’s the way Blaen treats Rhodry. All the generous things he does only make Rhoddo feel more shamed. Sometimes I don’t understand the honor-bound at all.”

“They have a rocky field to plow. But I’d hoped you’d linger here until I finished up my affairs, at least.”

“So did I. I’ll miss you.”

“Will you, now?” He felt his throat tighten. “I’ll miss you too, but you can always reach me through the fire.”

“So I can.” She was silent for so long that he came closer to look at her. “I’ve been thinking. At times I wish I’d just gone with you when you wanted me to study herbcraft, but now it’s too late.”

“Because of our Rhodry?”

She nodded agreement, thinking something through.

“But, well,” she said at last, “one of these days he’s bound to get me with child, and I won’t be able to ride with him. If I went back to Dun Gwerbyn to be with Da, he couldn’t even visit because of his exile. But cursed if I’ll end up a tavern wench like Mam. So I was wondering, you see, if maybe—”

“Of course, child!” Nevyn felt like jigging in sheer glee. “There’s no reason that you and I and the babe couldn’t settle down somewhere where the folk need an herbman and his apprentice.”

She smiled in such sunny relief that she looked more a child than a woman.

“If it weren’t for Rhodry’s stubborn honor,” he went on, “we could do it straightaway, but I can’t see him being willing to grub among the herbs like a farmer.”

“He might—on the night when the moon turns purple and falls from the sky.”

“Just so. But well and good, then. We’ll keep it in mind. Up in the northern provinces there are a number of towns that need an herbman enough to ignore the fact that a silver dagger is wintering with him.”

After Jill left, Nevyn stood by the window for a long time and smiled to himself. At last! he thought. Soon his Wyrd would begin to unknot; soon he could begin to lead her to the dweomer. Soon. Yet even in his joy he felt a cold warning, that nothing in his dweomer-wound life would ever be simple again.

EPILOGUE 1063

The wild wind of a man’s Wyrd twists his life.

Untamed it is, unknown its turning.

Dread the dolt who declares he sees his, sun

sparkling. In mirror-murk, Wyrd watches him.

—Gnomic Stanzas of Gweran, Bardd Blaedd

“Why didn’t you have Valandario order Ebañy home?” Calonderiel said. “It’s been months since the Master of the Aethyr had any need of him.”

“Because in my heart I was hoping that he’d do something just because I asked him,” Devaberiel said. “Just once.”

Calonderiel considered this gravely. They were sitting in Devaberiel’s tent, and a fire burned under the smoke hole in the center of the roof. Every now and then a drop of rain slipped past the baffles and hissed in the flames.

“You know,” the warleader said at last, “you rant and rave at the lad too much. I swear it, bard, when you’re in full voice and yelling at a man, it makes his head ache.”

“And did I ask your advice?”

“No, but you’ve got it anyway.”

“Coming from you, of all men—”

“Ah, I know us both very well. Isn’t that why you’re angry at me now?”

Devaberiel stifled a furious retort.

“Well, yes,” the bard said at last. “I suppose it is.”

Calonderiel smiled and passed the mead skin.

By then autumn was drawing to a close. The weary sun hauled itself up late and stayed for only a scant six hours before setting among the rain clouds. Although most of the People had ridden south to the winter camps, Devaberiel and a few friends waited on the Eldidd border, driving their horses from meadow to meadow in search of fresh grass, hunting the gray deer and the feral cattle left from the days when Eldidd men had tried to claim the borderlands. For all his bluster, Devaberiel was worried about his son. What if Ebañy had been taken ill in the filthy cities of men or been killed by thugs or bandits?

Finally, just two days before the darkest day, when rain poured down and wind howled round the tents, Ebañy rode in, dripping wet and shivering with cold, so miserable that Devaberiel didn’t have the heart to berate him straightaway. He helped his son tether his horses with the others, then brought him into the warm tent and had him change clothes. Ebañy huddled by the fire and took a skin of mead gratefully.

“And have you run enough errands for one summer?” the bard said.

“Oh, yes, and a strange business it was.” Ebañy wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and passed the skin to his father. “There. I am braced, O esteemed parent. You may lecture, scold, berate, and excoriate me to your heart’s content. I realize that I’ve arrived in the autumn only in the most limited, restricted, and weaseling sense of that word.”

“I was just worried about you, that’s all.”

Ebañy looked up in surprise and reached for the skin with a flourish.

“Well,” Devaberiel went on, as mildly as he could, “Deverry’s a dangerous place.”

“That’s true. I’m sorry. I found this lass up in Pyrdon, you see, on my way home, who found my humble self very amusing indeed.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a reasonable excuse.”

Again Ebañy stared at him in wide-eyed shock. Devaberiel smiled, enjoying the effect he was making.

“Don’t you want to know why I called you home?”

“Well, I assumed you wanted to take me to task for being a wastrel, scoundrel, lazy sot, or perchance total fool.”

“Nothing of the sort. I’ve got important news. This spring I discovered that you have a half brother I didn’t even know existed. His mother is a Deverry woman like yours, and he’s ended up a silver dagger.”

“Rhodry.”

“That’s his name, sure enough. How do you know?”

“Ah, by the Dark Sun herself, I met him, and just this spring. I kept staring at him and wondering why I thought I knew him. Here, Da, he looks a cursed lot like you.”

“So I’ve been told. Do you remember that silver ring, the one with the roses on it? It’s for him. Now, look, I can’t go riding around the kingdom, so when spring comes, will you take it to him?”