Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

Lovyan went tense, her face pale in the leaping firelight. Finally she nodded her agreement.

“His lordship is always welcome at the court of Aberwyn. And if he prefers, I shall keep up the fiction that this shabby old herbman amuses me.”

“I do prefer, and my thanks.”

That night, Nevyn stayed up late, leaning on the windowsill of his guest chamber and watching the moon sail through wind-torn and scudding clouds. He had been sent to his post like a soldier, and he would do nothing but obey. From now on, he would stay in Eldidd and trust that the Lords of Wyrd would send Brangwen to him when the time was ripe. Deep in his heart he felt true hope for the first time in hundreds of years. Great things were on the move. He could only wait and watch for their coming.

DEVERRY, 698

And the bard is picked out by his Agwen, not only to delight his lord, but to remember all the great deeds and great men in his clan, all in their proper order. For if men were without knowledge of anything but the name of each man’s father, then the children of bondsmen would be as noble or as base as the children of a gwerbret. Therefore, let no man or woman either commit the impiety of raising a hand against a bard. …

— The Edicts of King Bran

Heat shimmered on dead grass and stunted grain. Brackish brown water trickled between the banks of what had once been the River Nerr. Stripped to the waist, a herdsman led eager cows down to suck water that was mostly mud. Gweran the bard stood on the bank and watched for a moment, then glanced up at the sky, a crystal dome of pure blue, stubbornly clear. Although he’d come for a walk in the fields to work on a song he was composing, his heart spoke only of drought and the long cold winter of starvation that would follow. With a shudder, he turned away from the river and walked back to the dun of the White Wolf clan.

Ringed with earthworks, the small fort lay on top of a low hill. Behind the inner log palisade rose a squat stone broch, its slits of windows brooding like eyes over the dusty ward. Except for a few drowsy flies, the ward was deserted in the hot sun. Gweran hurried into the great hall, blessedly cool in the embrace of stone walls. Down by the empty hearth, Lord Maroic sat at the head of the honor table. With him were two priests of Bel, dressed in their long white tunics and gold torques, their freshly shaven heads shiny with sweat.

When Gweran knelt at his lord’s side, the head priest, Obyn, smiled at him, his eyes narrow under pouched lids. Lord Maroic, a florid-faced man in his thirties, with pale hair and pale mustache, stopped in midsentence to speak to his bard.

“I was hoping you’d return straightaway. A question for you. I don’t suppose a bard can invoke the rain.”

“I only wish I could. I should think His Holiness here would be the one to do that for us.”

“His lordship and I have been discussing just that,” Obyn said. “We are considering a horse sacrifice to placate the gods.”

“No doubt such an act of piety would be bound to please great Bel.”

Obyn considered him, while his young companion looked wistfully at the flagon of ale on the table.

“The question is why Bel is angry with us,” Obyn said finally. “A sacrifice will fail if a curse hangs over the land.”

“And does His Holiness think there is such a curse?” Gweran said.

“His Holiness doesn’t know.” Obyn allowed himself a thin-lipped smile. “A priest may read the omens of the future, but only a bard can read the past.”

Gweran sighed when he realized what Obyn was asking of him: that life-draining ritual of the Opening of the Well, where a bard may dream himself into the past and talk with the spirits of those long dead. He was tempted to refuse, but if there was no crop?

“A bard may try to read the past, Your Holiness, but I can only see what my Agwen shows me. By her grace, I’ll be of some use. Will you witness?”

“I will, and gladly. Tonight?”

“And why not? When the moon is rising, I’ll come to the temple.”

To rest before his ordeal, Gweran went up to his chambers on the third floor of the broch, two rooms opening off the central landing by the spiral staircase, one for his children and servant, one for himself and his wife. The main chamber displayed Lord Maroic’s proper generosity to his bard: a heavy bed hung with embroidered hangings, a carved chest, a table and two chairs, and a small Bardek carpet. On the table stood his two harps, the small plain lap harp, the tall heavily carved standing harp for formal presentations. Gweran idly plucked a few strings and smiled at the soft, resonant echo.

As if the sound were a signal, his wife, Lyssa, came in through the door of the children’s chamber. Although she was a pretty woman, with raven-dark hair and large blue eyes, her greatest beauty was her voice, soft, husky, with a musical lilt to it like wind in the trees. Her voice had snared Gweran’s heart from the first time he’d heard it, those ten long years ago when she was a lass of fifteen and he at twenty-five could finally think of marrying after his, long training.

“There you are, my love,” Lyssa said. “Are the priests still down in the hall? I came up here to get away from them.”

“Oh, they’re gone, I’m going to the temple tonight to work with them.”

Lyssa gasped, her soft lips parting. Laughing, Gweran took her hands in his.

“Oh, now here, they won’t lay me on the altar like in the Dawntime.”

“I know. There’s just somewhat about priests that makes you feel better if they never look your way. Do you want to sleep? I’ll keep the lads outside if you do.”

“My thanks, because I’d better.”

That night, Gweran fasted through the evening meal. Just at twilight, he fetched his gray gelding from the stables and rode out through a twilight as hot as a summer noon. Overhead in the opalescent sky, the full moon hung bloated on the horizon, shedding its silver light over farmland and forest. Four miles to the north of the dun stood the temple, built of wood and roofed with thatch, set among a small stand of oaks. When Gweran led his horse into the trees, a young priest was there to meet him, moving surefooted in the darkness. He took the reins of Gweran’s horse.

“I’ll take it round to the stable. His Holiness is waiting for you in the temple.”

Inside the small circular shrine, candle lanterns cast a pool of golden light before the stone altar. Draped in the long white cloak of ritual working, Obyn stood off to one side, his hands raised to the statue of the god, carved of a single oak trunk whose bark still clung for clothes on the abstract body. The head itself was beautifully modeled, with great staring eyes and a mobile mouth; two wooden heads hung by their wooden hair from its delicate hands. Lying in front of the altar was a thick pile of tanned white sheepskins.

“Is the temple suitable for the working?” Obyn said.

“It is, if the god will allow my goddess to share his abode.”

“I have no doubt that Great Bel will allow everything that will aid his people.” Obyn’s eyes blinked and fluttered. “Since he is, after all, the lord of all gods and goddesses.”

Rather than engage in religious controversy at the wrong moment, Gweran smiled and knelt down by the pile of sheepskins. He spread them out to make a rough bed, then lay down on his back and crossed his arms over his chest. He let himself go limp until he felt like a corpse, laid out for burial. Obyn knelt down by his feet. The old man moved slowly and stiffly as he sat back on his heels.

“Can His Holiness kneel there all night?”