Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

“Cursed indeed. Twice cursed.”

Nevyn paced restlessly back and forth while Rhegor helped the lady into her chair.

“Tell me somewhat, my lady,” Nevyn said. “If I steal her away from her brother, will you blame me?”

“Never! But if you do, Gerraent will call on his friends, and they’ll hunt you down like the gray deer.”

“I’d die for her, and I’m more clever than the gray deer.”

That very evening, Nevyn took his bay gelding and headed south for the Falcon’s dun. He was going to have to be clever. He could never risk riding straight into the fort, even if Gerraent were gone. He would be of no use to Brangwen if Gerraent returned and killed him at her feet. Though Galrion had never been particularly good with a sword, Nevyn had a few tricks of dweomer at his disposal. He was sure that if he could only get a few minutes alone with Brangwen, he could easily convince her to steal out of the dun and escape with him. Once they were on the road, Gerraent would never find them.

When Nevyn reached Ynna’s hut, he told her that Rhegor had sent him to keep an eye on things. As he’d hoped, Ynna was so glad of it that she offered him shelter with her.

“Here, the women down in the village are starting to whisper that Brangwen’s carrying a bastard,” Ynna said.

“Are they? Well, that betrothed of hers swore he’d come back for her, you see. Rhegor says to tell you that he’s been seen sneaking round this part of the country.”

When Ynna raised her eyebrows and smiled, Nevyn was sure that this delicious gossip would soon be all over the village. He could only hope it would give the truth no room to spread.

For three days, Nevyn kept a close watch on the Falcon dun. Down at the edge of the forest, close to the road, he found a large spreading oak. By climbing up into the crown, he could lie hidden and see the fort, just a mile away across the meadowland. Drawing on all his will, he sent his thoughts across and tried to reach Brangwen’s mind, calling her, planting the thought that she should come out to the forest. Once, he felt that he reached her; he also felt her brush the irrational thought aside. He kept trying, begging her, but failing, until he was desperate enough to consider sneaking into the dun the next time Gerraent rode out to hunt.

On the fourth afternoon, as he was lying on his perch, Nevyn saw a man and a page riding slowly up the hill to the dun. He recognized the horse and the set of the rider’s shoulders. Blaen. He climbed down and ran for the hut.

“Ynna, for the love of every god, I need your aid. Can you give me an excuse to get into the Falcon dun? A message I can deliver, anything to tell the servants.”

“Well.” Ynna thought for a maddeningly long time. “Here, I made a love philter for Ludda, Brangwen’s serving lass. She’s got her eyes set on a lad in the village. You can fetch it to her.”

While Ynna got the packet of herbs, Nevyn rubbed dirt into his hair and face—a poor disguise, but then, no one had ever seen the prince the least bit dirty. He muffled himself up in his cloak, then galloped up to the dun. As he led his horse into the ward, he saw Blaen’s page leading the lord’s horses to the stables. Brythu came running and looked Nevyn over coldly.

“And just what do you want?”

“A word with Ludda, if you please. Ynna gave me somewhat to fetch to her.”

“I’ll go ask her. You wait here, and don’t try to come in.”

When Ludda appeared, she looked the unkempt stranger over nervously.

“I brought you some herbs from Ynna. She said you might give a poor man a drop of ale, too.”

At the sound of his voice, Ludda started, laying her hand at her throat.

“My prince!” she whispered. “Thanks be to the Goddess herself!” Then she raised her voice. “Well, I will do that, because you’ve spared me a long, hot walk to her hut.”

Nevyn tied his horse up by the door, then followed Ludda inside to the servants’ hearth in the great hall. He sat down in the straw in the curve of the wall, out of the way of the other servants, who were busy preparing dinner. They gave him hardly a look; Ludda had the privilege of being generous to a stranger if she chose. Down at the far side of the hall, Gerraent and Blaen were drinking at the honor table. From his distance, and because they talked in low voices, Nevyn couldn’t hear their words, but it was plain enough that Blaen was furious from the way he leaned forward in his chair and clutched his tankard like a weapon. When Blaen’s page returned, he gave his master an anxious glance and sat down by his feet in the straw. Ludda brought Nevyn his ale and knelt down beside him with a nervous look at the lords.

“Where’s your lady?” Nevyn whispered.

“Hiding from Lord Blaen. But she’ll have to come out sooner or later, or Lord Gerraent will take it amiss.”

“No doubt. Oh, no doubt.”

Ludda winced and began to tremble.

“I know the truth,” Nevyn said. “I don’t care. I’ve come to take her away.”

Ludda wept in two thin silent trails of tears.

“I’ll help if I can. But I don’t know what good can ever happen now.”

On the pretense of keeping out of the cook’s way, Nevyn moved from the hearth to a spot nearer the two lords. At last Brangwen slipped into the hall, pressing against the wall and watching her brother. Nevyn was shocked at the change in her. Her cheeks were hollow and pale, her eyes deep-shadowed, and her stance that of a doe poised for flight. She glanced his way and allowed herself a tremulous smile. Nevyn rose slowly, fighting with himself to keep from rushing to her side. Then Brangwen shrank back against the wall.

Nevyn had forgotten Blaen and Gerraent, who were leaning forward in their chairs and staring each other down. Slowly and deliberately Blaen rose, his hand on his sword hilt.

“May the gods curse you,” Blaen said. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

Gerraent rose to face him, his hands on his hips, and he smiled in a calm that made Nevyn’s blood run cold.

“Answer me,” Blaen said, his voice ringing in the hall. “You’ve taken your sister to your bed, haven’t you?”

Gerraent drew, the sword flashings swung and struck before Blaen could get his blade half out of the scabbard. Brangwen screamed, one high note, as Blaen took one step and staggered, the bright blood pouring down his chest. He look at Gerraent as if he were bewildered, then crumpled at Gerraent’s feet. His page began inching for the door. Gerraent turned and went for him.

“Gerro!” Brangwen rushed in between. “Not the lad!”

Gerraent hesitated, and that moment gave the page his life. He dashed outside without looking back. Just as Nevyn ran forward, the boy grabbed the bay gelding and swung himself into the saddle. Screaming and weeping, the servants rushed for the door. The bloody sword still in his hands, Gerraent began to laugh, then saw Blaen’s body on the floor and came to himself. Nevyn could see the reason return to his eyes as he fell to his knees and started keening. Nevyn grabbed Brangwen by the arm.

“We’ve got to get out now!”

“I can’t.” Brangwen gave him a smile as mad as her brother’s. “I swore I’d die with him.”

“No god or man would hold you to such an unclean oath.”

“I hold myself to it, my prince.”

Nevyn grabbed her and started pulling her toward the door, but Gerraent leapt up and ran to block it, his sword at the ready. Here’s where I die, Nevyn thought.

“Prince Galrion, by the gods,” Gerraent hissed.

“I am. Go on. Add my blood to your sworn friend’s.”

“Not him, Gerro!” Brangwen burst out. “Just kill me and be done with it.”

“I won’t raise my sword against either of you. My prince? Will you take her away?”