Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

“I would, and I will, if you let me come with you.”

Cullyn was looking at him in a weary grief. Only then did Nevyn realize that Cullyn loved Rhodry as much as Gerraent had loved Blaen before Brangwen came in between them. He realized another thing, too, that he respected this hard-bitten silver dagger who was willing to humble himself for those he loved. As palpably as if he’d thrown down a heavy-laden sack, Nevyn felt the chains of Wyrd break and set him free. Cullyn would never be Gerraent to him again, but merely himself—not even a man he’d forgiven for a fault, but a friend. For a moment, he wept. Cullyn laid a well-meaning if misunderstanding hand on his shoulder.

“I feel like weeping over it, too, but we can pull him out of this rope if ever two men can.”

And together, truly together like a pair of blood-sworn warriors, Nevyn and Cullyn went straight to Rhys’s private chambers. When Nevyn pounded on the door, a page opened it with the news that His Grace was receiving no visitors.

“Then tell him that no one is here, or I’ll send a dweomer-storm in ahead of me.”

With a yelp the page flung the door wide and dodged back out of their way. Rhys was seated in a heavy carved chair with the lady Donilla crouched on a footstool at his side. He rose to meet his uninvited guests, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and tossed his head back. Nevyn had to admire him for refusing to be intimidated by the best swordsman in all Deverry and a man who could burn his broch to the ground with a snap of his fingers.

“I suppose you’ve come to beg for Rhodry’s life.”

“We have, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “And both of us will go down on our knees if we have to.”

Rhys considered them for a moment, then smiled, a cold twitch of his mouth.

“I have no intention of hanging my own brother. I just want to make sure that the young cub knows his place. All he has to do is beg my forgiveness in open malover, and that’s an end to it.”

Nevyn let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.

“Here, both of you,” Rhys went on. “Did you truly think I’d break my mother’s heart and see half of western Eldidd go into rebellion by hanging him?” When they hesitated, Rhys smiled again. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Well, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “You’ve made your feelings about your kin quite clear in the past.”

“Ah, by the gods!” All at once, Rhys exploded, talking so fast that it was hard to understand him. “And why shouldn’t I hate him? All my life all I’ve ever heard is Rhodry this and Rhodry that, Rhodry’s the one with the honor, what a cursed shame that Rhodry wasn’t born first so he could have the rhan, Rhodry, Rhodry, Rhodry!” Rhys’s face was a dangerous shade of scarlet. “To hear them talk you’d think I’d cheated the little turd out of his inheritance when all the time it was rightfully mine!”

With a fluid grace, Donilla rose and caught her husband’s arm.

“My lord distresses himself.”

“So I do.” Rhys paused to force himself under control. “My apologies, good sorcerer, and to you, captain. Rest assured that your lord’s life is safe from me.”

“Your Grace, meaning no insult and all,” Cullyn said, “but do I have your sworn word on that?”

“You do,” Rhys said graciously. “No doubt you need it to reassure your men.”

“I do, and my thanks, Your Grace, from the bottom of my heart.”

Yet Cullyn looked so bored and bland that Nevyn wondered just what the captain was up to.

Since all matters of criminal justice in Aberwyn were under Rhys’s jurisdiction, out in his ward stood a proper jail, a long stone building with a common room for local drunks and beggars, and a few tiny cells for more important prisoners. It was some comfort, Rhodry supposed, that he qualified for one of those, even though it was only about six feet square and reeked of urine and garbage. Under the tiny barred window was a heap of somewhat cleaner straw. Rhodry sat down there, wrapped his arms around his knees, and laid his head on them, too. He was shaking, he could not stop shaking, and it was from fear, not rage. He could face dying easily, but the shame of it ate at him, that he would be strung up in Rhys’s ward like a common horse thief where every man could watch and mock him.

All his honor, all his hard-won glory in the recent war, all the respect of the men who were once his vassals—gone, stripped away from him by one thoughtless act. No bard would ever sing about Rhodry Maelwaedd without reminding his audience that here was a lord who’d died on the end of a rope. As a hanged man he would even lack a proper grave among his ancestors. Without his honor, he was nothing, worth less than a bondman, not even a man at all. He bent all his will to the task, but he could not stop shaking. And what of Jill? At the thought of losing her this way, he wept, sobbing like a frightened child in the dark, until he realized that his tears were shaming him all the more. He unwrapped himself from his cramped position, wiped his face on his sleeve, then curled up again and went on shaking.

Rhodry had no idea of how long he’d sat there before he heard Cullyn’s voice at the window, a soft “my lord?” Hurriedly he stood up and peered out.

“Here! Over here.”

With a furtive look round Cullyn sidled up to the wall.

“I thank the gods I’ve found you. I’ve been whispering at every one of these cursed windows. The guards won’t let me in to talk with you.”

“No doubt they’re afraid you’ll murder them.”

“I was tempted, my lord. Here, Rhys has no intentions of hanging you. Nevyn and I went to plead for your life, and he said ever so sweetly that he’d never break your mother’s heart that way. He’s staged all this to humiliate you and naught more. All you have to do is beg his pardon in the malover, and he’ll forgive you.”

Rhodry grabbed the window bars so hard that his hands hurt.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Cullyn snapped. “Give the bastard what he wants, and we’ll be on our way home.”

Clinging to the bars, Rhodry rocked back and forth, throwing his weight against them as if he would pull them out.

“Rhodry! Talk to me!”

Rhodry went on rocking, shaking, tossing his head back and forth. He wanted to answer Cullyn, but he seemed to have forgotten how to speak. He heard other voices, then, guards, yelling insults and orders. When he could at last make himself stand still, Cullyn was gone.

Rhodry sat down, but this time he sprawled out and leaned against the wall. Rhys’s little trick had broken something in him, he realized, made him see a part of himself that he’d never wanted to see but that now he would never forget. It would haunt him his whole life, the night he trembled like a terrified child instead of facing his death like a man. All at once he fell asleep where he sprawled. All night, he dreamt about Jill.

The guards woke him early and tossed him half a loaf of stale bread that he threw back in their faces. For over an hour he paced back and forth, barely thinking at all. At last the guards returned. They bound his hands behind his back with a leather thong and marched him out of the cell.

“Can’t I have some clean clothes? I stink from that straw.”

“His Grace said to bring you along straightaway.”

Of course, Rhodry thought to himself, of course. It was part of the humiliation, that he would have to kneel filthy and stinking at Rhys’s feet. As they crossed the great hall, men looked his way with a pity that hurt worse than scorn. Up and round the staircase, through the last door, and there was Rhys, sitting on the far side of the chamber of justice with the priests beside him and scribes in attendance. The crowd of onlookers moved aside to let the guards through. When they reached the table, one of the guards kicked Rhodry in the back of the knee and forced him to kneel. Rhys looked at him with a stranger’s eyes.