Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

Nevyn whistled under his breath. Nesta’s image gave him a grim little smile.

“And the ship sailed with the tide not two hours ago,” she went on. “And now the Wildfolk are as calm as you please, and there’s not a trace of anything to be found on the etheric.”

“Then if it wasn’t him, it was another of his foul kind, but I’ll wager it was my enemy. He’d know I couldn’t follow him to Bardek with the winter coming on.”

“He was very lucky to get a ship himself. It was like the boat was waiting for him, wasn’t it, now?”

“It was indeed. I’ll wager you tracked our rat to his hole, sure enough. My humble thanks, Nesta, and my thanks to that sharp-eyed custom officer, too.”

“Oh, he’s a good lad.” She chuckled briefly. “He prenticed with my man and me, and I taught him how to use his two eyes.”

After Nesta said farewell, Nevyn spent some time pacing in his chamber and considering this news. Since neither he nor anyone else had picked up any other traces of dark dweomer, he was quite sure that Nesta had spotted the enemy. It made him curse aloud, because with a winter’s head start, the enemy would be impossible to find in Bardek, a land of many small states and constant political turmoil that made local authorities very lax on matters of civil law. Since not even the greatest dweomermaster in the world could scry or send a projection over a large body of water, Nevyn would even have to wait until spring to send letters to those who studied the true dweomer in Bardek and warn them of this enemy’s coming. As much as it ached his heart, he was going to have to let the enemy escape. For now, he told himself—just for now. Then he put the matter aside forcibly and went to distract himself by dressing for the gwerbret’s inquiry into the rebellion.

The formal hearing was held in the gwerbret’s chamber of justice, an enormous half-round of a room on the second floor of the main broch. In the exact middle of the curve were two windows with the dragon banner of Aberwyn hanging between them. Under it was a long table, where Rhys sat in the center with the golden ceremonial sword of Aberwyn in front of him. To either side of him sat priests of Bel, his councillors in the laws. A scribe had a little table to the right, and the various witnesses stood to the left, Rhodry himself, his various allies, and Loyvan, who as a mark of respect had a chair. The rest of the room was crowded with the merely curious, including Nevyn, who stood by the door and watched sourly as the proceedings dragged on.

One at a time, Rhodry’s allies knelt in front of the table and answered Rhys’s questions about every detail of the war, day by day, until Nevyn wondered if the wretched thing would take longer to discuss than it did to fight. Over and over again, the allies testified that Rhodry had comported himself mercifully and abided by every law of honor. Yet Rhys sent for Cullyn, too, and questioned him while Rhodry turned dangerously sullen and Sligyn’s face blossomed red with rage. Finally Rhys summoned Rhodry one last time.

“There’s only one small point left, Lord Rhodry. How do you expect me to believe all this talk of dweomer?”

Nevyn sighed; he should have expected that.

“Because it’s true, Your Grace,” Rhodry said. “As all my witnesses have attested.”

“Indeed? It makes me wonder if you’re all spinning a wild tale to cover a worse one.”

When Sligyn, his face scarlet, lunged forward, Peredyr grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Lovyan rose from her chair and stalked over to the table.

“If I may have leave to speak, Your Grace? Will you sit there and say that your own mother is lying to you?”

“Of course not. But you may have been lied to.”

Sligyn made a noise as if he were choking, and Edar muttered something under his breath.

“I take it, then, Your Grace,” Lovyan said, “that the reports of dweomer are the whole point of this malover.”

“They are. I want the truth.”

“Then you shall have it.” Lovyan turned, her eyes searching the crowd. “Nevyn, will you assist me in this matter?”

Nevyn hesitated, wondering if displaying the dweomer before a crowd were contrary to his vows. Then it occurred to him that perhaps it was time for more men to know that the dweomer existed; after all, one reason that the dark dweomer could thrive was that most educated people laughed at the very idea of dweomer. He worked his way through the crowd and made the gwerbret a bow, but he stayed standing.

“Your Grace, I understand your skepticism in the face of such peculiar events, but I assure you that men such as me have all the strange powers of which Lord Rhodry has spoken.”

The crowd gasped and eased forward. Rhys leaned back insolently in his chair.

“Indeed? And do you expect me to believe that on your word alone?”

Nevyn raised his hands and called upon the Wildfolk of Air and Aethyr in his mind, where he gave them his commands. Suddenly a blast of wind stormed through the chamber and set the banner flapping and the parchments of priests and scribes flying through the air. Thunder boomed, and bolts of blue fire crackled and gleamed like miniature lightning. Nevyn himself glowed with an intense golden light. Screaming, shoving each other, the crowd of onlookers fled the chamber. Rhys leapt to his feet with an oath, his face dead white, and the priests clung together like frightened women as the wind raged around them with strange, half-heard laughter rippling in it. Nevyn raised his arm slowly and snapped his fingers. The wind, fire, and light all vanished.

“Not on my word alone, Your Grace, no.”

Sligyn was laughing so hard that he nearly choked, but Peredyr dug his elbow into the lord’s ribs and made him hold his tongue. Rhys looked this way and that, his mouth working as he tried to speak. Rhodry got to his feet and bowed to him.

“Does my brother still disbelieve me?”

Rhys turned to Rhodry’s allies and made them the bow.

“My lords, you have my sincere and humble apologies for ever doubting one word you spoke. I beg you to find it in your hearts to forgive me for slighting your honor, because I was ignorant and had never seen the things you have seen.”

Sligyn growled, but Peredyr got in before him.

“No need to grovel, Your Grace. We all had a hard time believing it ourselves at first.”

“My humble thanks, my lord.” Rhys picked up the ceremonial sword without so much as glancing Rhodry’s way and rapped the pommel three times on the table. “The malover is closed. The gwerbret has spoken.”

Since he had no desire to be mobbed by the curious, Nevyn lingered just long enough to grab Rhodry’s arm and haul him away. They hurried out to the gardens, where the leafless aspens shivered in a cold wind, and the marble dragon in the fountain seemed to shiver under the fall of water.

“My thanks, Nevyn. I’ve never treasured any sight more than the sight of Rhys’s pig face when the fires went crackling round him. Do you want Corbyn’s demesne? I’ll get Mother to bestow it upon you.”

“Spare yourself the effort, though I appreciate the thought. I think I’m going to have to hide in my chamber for the rest of this miserable visit.”

“Then come with me. I’m going to leave tomorrow with Jill and some of the men. Cursed if I’ll sit around here and let Rhys insult me. You saw him turn and speak to Peredyr, not me.”

“I did, and you’ve got every right to be furious, but please, lad, try to contain yourself. You’re right. By all means, let’s leave on the morrow—and early.”

“At the crack of dawn. I can stand it for one more night.”

Rhodry spoke so calmly, and his plan of leaving was so sensible, that Nevyn never felt the trouble coming. Later, of course, he would curse himself for a fool.