Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

“Gerro!” Brangwen stared at him in disbelief. “You promised me. You swore you’d kill us both.”

Gerraent’s eyes snapped in fury. He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her into Nevyn’s arms.

“You little bitch, get out of here! I’ve slain the only man in the world I loved, and all over you.” Gerraent slapped her across the face. “The sight of you sickens me. This means the death of the Falcon, and it’s all because of you!

The lie was so perfect that Nevyn believed him, but when Brangwen fell weeping against him, he saw the truth in Gerraent’s eyes: a real love, not mere lust, the hopeless ache of a man sending away the only thing he ever loved.

“Take the gray from the stable,” Gerraent said. “It would have been yours in the dowry.”

Gerraent turned and threw his sword across the great hall, then flung himself down by Blaen’s body. Slowly, one step at a time, Nevyn half carried, half dragged Brangwen out of the hall. He looked back once to see Gerraent cuddled against Blaen’s back, just as when a warrior lies beside his slain friend on the battlefield and refuses to believe him dead, no matter how many men try to get him to come away.

Out in the ward, the last of the sunset flared through shadows. Torch in hand, Brythu led the gray out of the stables. Ludda rushed from the broch with a pair of saddlebags and some rolled-up blankets. An eerie silence hung over the deserted ward.

“My prince, forgive me,” Brythu said. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“I’m blasted glad you didn’t! Ludda, is there anyone else left in the dun? You’d all better flee to your families. The Boar will ride back as soon as ever it can, and they’ll fire the place for Blaen’s sake.”

“Then we’ll leave straightaway, my prince. Here, I’ve brought food and suchlike for my lady.”

Nevyn lifted Brangwen into the saddle like a child, then mounted behind her. He rode out slowly, letting the burdened horse pick its own pace. At the bottom of the hill, Nevyn glanced back for a last look at the dun, rising dark against the sunset sky. With the dweomer sight, it seemed to him that he saw flames already dancing.

That night they rode only for a few hours, until they were well away from the dun and into the safe hills. Nevyn found a copse of trees beside a stream for their camp. After he tended the horse, he built a little fire out of twigs and scraps of dead wood. Brangwen stared at the fire and never spoke until he was done.

“You must know,” she said.

“I do. I want you, child and all.”

“Let me spare you that. I want to die. You can’t still love me. I’m carrying my own brother’s bastard.”

“That’s my shame as much as yours. I left you there alone with him.”

“You didn’t push me into his bed.” Brangwen gave him an uncertain smile, a pathetic attempt to be cold. “I don’t love you anymore anyway.”

“You don’t lie as well as your brother.”

Brangwen sighed and looked at the fire.

“There’ll be a curse on the child, I just know it. Why won’t you just kill me? Gerro promised me he’d kill us both, and here he was lying to me the whole time. He promised me.” She began to weep. “Ah, ye gods, he promised me!”

Nevyn caught her in his arms and let her sob. Finally, she fell silent, so silent that he was frightened, but she’d merely fallen asleep in a merciful exhaustion. He woke her just enough to get her to lie down on the blankets and sleep again.

In the morning, Brangwen fell into a dream state. She never spoke, refused to eat by turning her head away like a stubborn child, and had to be lifted onto the horse. All morning they rode slowly, avoiding the roads and sparing the burdened horse as much as possible. If they hadn’t been riding to Rhegor, Nevyn would have been overwhelmed by despair. She was broken, crushed like a silver cup that falls beneath a warrior’s boot when his troop is looting a hall. Rhegor could help her—Nevyn clung to that hope—but Rhegor was over a day’s ride away.

Occasionally Nevyn thought of the Boar’s warband, riding for revenge. The page had doubtless reached them before dawn; they were doubtless already on their way to the Falcon, with Blaen’s young brother Camlann—Lord Camlann now—at their head. Nevyn supposed that Gerraent would flee ahead of them into a miserable exile’s life.

Close to sunset, Nevyn and Brangwen came to the river that would, on the morrow, lead them to Rhegor. After he made their camp, Nevyn tried to get Brangwen to eat or speak. She would do neither. All at once he realized that she was planning on starving herself to death to keep her vow to the gods. Though it ached his heart, he used the only weapon he had.

“And what are you doing? Starving the baby inside you? The poor little thing is cursed indeed if its own mother won’t feed it.”

Her eyes brimming tears, Brangwen raised her head. She looked at him, then took a piece of bread and began to nibble on it. When Nevyn gave her cheese and an apple, she ate it all, but she never spoke a word. He gathered more wood for the fire, then made her lie down near it where she could be warm. When he went through their meager provisions to see what was left, he found, wrapped in a piece of cloth, every courting present he’d ever given her. Ludda had sent them all along. Nevyn looked for a long while at the jeweled brooch in the shape of a falcon and thought of Gerraent.

When the night turned dark, and Brangwen had fallen fast asleep, Nevyn finally gave in to his wondering and built up the fire to scry. With so much terror and pain behind it, the vision built up fast, showing him the great hall of the Falcon. Blaen’s body was laid out by the hearth, with a pillow under his head and his sword on his chest. When Nevyn sent his mind to Gerraent, the vision changed. Out in the ward, Gerraent was pacing back and forth with his sword in his hand. He. had refused to flee his Wyrd.

Nevyn never truly knew how long he kept that last watch with Gerraent. Once, the fire burned so low that he lost the vision, but when he laid more wood in, he scried Gerraent out immediately, pacing, pacing, pacing, his sword swinging back and forth, the blade glittering in the torchlight. At last, Nevyn heard the sound, just as Gerraent did, tossing up his head like a stag. Horses, a lot of them, clattering up the hill. Gerraent strolled to the gates and positioned himself between them with his sword raised at the battle-ready. With his warband behind him, Lord Camlann rode into the pool of torchlight while Gerraent stood and smiled. When Camlann drew his sword, the warband did the same.

“Where’s my brother’s body?”

“By my hearth. Bury one of my horses with him, will you?”

His young face troubled, Camlann leaned forward in the saddle to stare at the friend who had become his enemy. Then the troubled look disappeared, swept away by the cold, honorable rage of the avenger. He flung up his sword, keened once, and spurred his horse forward. The men charged and ringed Gerraent round. In the mob, Nevyn saw Gerraent’s sword flash up, bright with blood in the torchlight. A horse reared; men shouted; then the mob pulled back. Gerraent was lying dead on the ground. His cheek bleeding from a sword cut, Camlann dismounted and walked over to kneel beside him. He raised his sword two-handed and cut Gerraent’s head off. He rose, swinging the head by the hair, and with a howl of rage, he flung it hard against the wall.

The scream broke the vision—Brangwen’s scream. Nevyn scrambled up and ran to her just as she rose, sobbing.

“Gerro! He’s dead. Gerro, Gerro, Gerro!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Camlann—ah ye gods—he cut—he, ah, ye gods! Gerro!”

Nevyn flung his arms around her and pulled her tight. Brangwen struggled, throwing herself back and forth in his arms while she keened for her brother and the father of her child. Nevyn held on tightly and grimly until at last she fell silent.