Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

“It is over,” Rhegor called out. “Let her rest.”

Nevyn fell on his knees at the foot of the cairn.

“Brangwen, my love, forgive me! If we ever meet again, I swear I’ll put this right. I swear to you—I’ll never rest until I set this right.”

“Hold your tongue! You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I don’t care—I’ll swear it anyway. I’ll never rest until I put this right!”

From the clear sky came a clap of thunder, then another, then another—three mighty hollow knocks, rolling and booming over the forest. His face white, Rhegor stepped back.

“The Great Ones have accepted your sacrifice.”

After the thunder, the silence rang unbearably loud. Nevyn rose, shaking like a man with a fever. Rhegor shrugged and picked up his shovel.

“Well, there you go, lad. A vow’s a vow.”

• • •

When the forest was turning gold and scarlet, and the winds whipped down from the north, Gwerbret Madoc rode their way. Nevyn came back from gathering firewood to find His Grace’s black horse, shield hanging at the saddle bow, standing in front of the hut. He dumped his armload of wood into the bin and ran inside to find Madoc drinking ale with Rhegor at the table.

“Here’s my apprentice, Your Grace. Since you’re so interested in meeting him.”

“Have you come to kill me?” Nevyn said.

“Don’t be a dolt, lad. I came to offer my aid to Brangwen, but now I hear Fm far too late.”

Nevyn sat down and felt his grief welling up heavy in his heart.

“How did you find me?”

“By asking here and there. When you were banished, I stayed at court and tried to convince His Highness to recall you. I might as well have tried to squeeze mead out of turnips. So your most noble mother let it slip to me that you’d gone for the dweomer, and that there was no hope at all. Then when I rode to Lady Rodda after Blaen’s murder, I heard a tale or two from the servants about this strange herbman and his apprentice. Worth a look, think I, but I haven’t had the time till now.”

“Nicely done,” Rhegor said. “The gwerbret keeps his eyes open wider than most men.”

Madoc winced as if he’d been slapped.

“Here, Your Grace, just a way of speaking.”

“You can’t know how deep that cuts,” Madoc said. “About Gerraent and his god-cursed passion? I saw it, and here, like a fool I held my tongue, hoping I was wrong.”

“If it’s any comfort, there’s not a soul in the kingdom who would blame you.”

“No comfort at all when a man blames himself. But then I heard that our prince had gotten her away in the end. Well, think I, the least I can do is find the lass before winter and make sure she and child will be warm.” His voice broke. “Too late now. I’ll never make it up to her.”

A cold silence hung in the room.

“How fares Lady Rodda?” Rhegor said at last. “I grieve for her, but I haven’t dared to ride her way.”

“Well, she’s a warrior’s wife and the mother of warriors. Her heart will heal in time. By every god in the sky, I failed Blaen, too! A piss-poor excuse for a man I am, taking a man’s fealty and then letting things sweep him to his death.”

“And the Falcon no longer flies. It’s a hard thing to see the death of a clan.”

“And death it is, truly. The King has given the Falcon’s lands to the Boar as a blood price for Blaen’s murder. What lord will ever take that device again, cursed as it?”

“True enough,” Nevyn joined in. “And in a while, the bards will sing the ballad of Brangwen and Gerraent. I wonder what they’ll make of it.”

Rhegor snorted profoundly.

“Somewhat better than it deserves. Oh, no doubt.”

DEVERRY, 1058

If a man would claim the dweomer, he must learn patience above all else. No fruit falls from a tree before it is ripe.

— The Secret Book of

Cadwallon the Druid

So early in the spring, the river water ran cold. Giggling and splashing, Jill jumped up and down in the shallows until she could bear to kneel on the sandy bottom. Curious Wildfolk clustered round, faces that appeared in the ripples, sleek silver forms that darted like fish, while she washed her hair as well as she could without soap. She’d never worried before about being clean, but lately it had grown important. Once she was done, she rolled on the grassy bank like a horse to get dry, then hurried back to the camp among the hazel trees. Out in the meadow beyond, her gray pony and Da’s warhorse were grazing quietly. Cullyn himself was still over at a nearby farmhouse buying food. Jill rushed to get dressed before he returned. Just lately, it was troubling to think of Da seeing her without any clothes.

Before she put on her shirt, she looked at her chest and the two definite swellings of little breasts. At times, she wished that they would just go away. She was thirteen, an ominous age since many girls married at fourteen. Hurriedly she pulled on the shirt and belted it in, then rummaged in the saddlebags and found a comb and a fragment of cracked mirror. The gray gnome, all long nose and warts, materialized next to her. When Jill held up the mirror to him, he looked behind it as if searching for the rest of the gnome he saw there.

“That’s you. See, there’s your nose.”

The bewildered creature merely sighed and hunkered down on the grass next to her.

“If it was bigger maybe you’d understand. Da said he’d buy me a proper mirror for my birthday, but I don’t want one. Stupid town lasses primp all the time, but I’m a silver dagger’s daughter.”

The gnome nodded agreement and scratched his armpit.

When Cullyn returned, they set out riding for Dun Mannanan, a coastal town on the eastern border of Deverry province. It turned out to be a collection of wooden houses that straggled along a river, where decrepit, aging fishing boats were docked. Rather than having town walls, it merely faded into the surrounding farmlands, and the smell of drying fish was everywhere. On a muddy street that curved up to the river’s edge, they found a shabby wooden inn, where the innkeep took Cullyn’s coin without even a glance at his silver dagger. Since it was market day, the tavern room was crowded with men, a sullen lot, by and large, and Jill noticed that a remarkably large number of them wore swords. As soon as they were alone, she asked Cullyn if Dun Mannanan were a pirate haven.

“Nah, nah, nah, they’re all smugglers. Those stinking boats out in the river are faster than they look. They carry in many a pretty thing under the mackerel.”

“Doesn’t the local lord stop it?”

“The local lord’s in it up to his neck. Now, don’t you say one word about this out in public, mind.”

Once the horses were tended, they went down to the market fair. Down by the river, people had set up wooden booths, but many simply displayed their goods on brown cloths thrown onto the ground. There was food of all sorts—cabbages and greens, cheeses and eggs, live chickens tied upside down onto poles, suckling pigs, and rabbits. Cullyn brought them each a chunk of roast pork on a stick to eat as they looked at the booths with cloth, pottery, and metal work.

“I don’t see any fancy lace. Pity. I wanted to buy you some for your birthday.”

“Oh, Da, I don’t want that sort of thing.”

“Indeed? Then what about a pretty dress?”

“Da!”

“A new doll? Jewelry?”

“Da, you’d best be jesting.”

“Naught of the sort. Here, I know a jeweler in this town, and I’ll wager he’s not even at the fair. Come along.”

Down near the edge of town, where the green commons met the last houses, they came to a little shop with a wooden sign painted with a silver brooch. When Cullyn pushed open the door, silver bells jingled melodiously above. The chamber was just a thin slice of the round house cut off by an intricate wickerwork partition. The doorway in the wickerwork was covered by an old green blanket.