Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

“There’s our Lyssa,” Lady Cabrylla said comfortably. “Nevyn, this is the bard’s wife.”

Nevyn wondered why he’d ever been so stupid as to think his Wyrd would work out cleanly. He bowed over Lyssa’s hand and mumbled some pleasantry, which she returned. As their eyes met, she recognized him. He could see a sudden flash of joy in her dark blue eyes, then a bewilderment, as she doubtless wondered why she was so pleased to see this old man. That flash of joy was so much more than Nevyn had believed possible that for the joy of seeing her again, he was willing to endure the harshest of Wyrds.

The horse sacrifice took place out in the sacred oak grove at the edge of the village. On the appointed day, just before sunset, the villagers and the lord’s household formed a ragged procession by the village well. Lord Maroic knelt before Obyn the high priest and handed over the reins of a splendid white stallion. While Obyn held the horse, the young priests decorated the bridle with mistletoe. When they began to chant, the horse tossed its head and snorted, feeling its strange Wyrd like a rider on its back. To the slow pace of the chanting, Obyn led the horse away. Lord Maroic scrambled up and fell in behind, with the rest of the crowd following him. The procession wound through the grove, filled with long pillars of golden sunlight, and came to the altar deep within. Unlike that in the temple, this altar was a rough slab of barely worked stone. Wood for a large fire lay ready upon it.

While Obyn held the horse, the young priests came forward, struck flint on steel, and lit the kindling. Obyn watched narrow eyed: if the fire caught poorly, the day was cursed, and the sacrifice would have to be postponed. As the flames danced up bright and strong, the crowd sank to its knees.

Gweran took the chance to move well back to the edge. Since he had Aderyn with him, he wanted to be a good distance away when the horse met its Wyrd. As the chanting droned on, Aderyn twisted round to look over the crowd. Men on one side, women and tiny children oil the other, everyone who lived within twenty miles was here to beg the god to spare their crops. When Gweran looked over the women, he saw Lyssa and Cadda well to the back, Cadda with a scarf ready to hide her eyes. Acern was asleep in his mother’s lap. The chanting grew faster and louder as the flames rose high.

“Da?” Aderyn whispered. “This is a waste of a good horse.”

“Hush. Don’t talk at rituals.”

“But nothing’s going to happen till the full moon.”

When Gweran threatened a slap, Aderyn fell silent. A young priest took the nervous horses reins from Obyn, who stepped in front of the altar, raised his arms high into the air, and began to beg the god for mercy, his voice rising and quickening, faster and faster, until he cried out in a great sob of supplication. A priest blew on a brass horn, a rasping ancient cry down from the Dawntime. Then silence. Obyn took a bronze sickle from his belt and approached the horse, who tossed up its head in terror. When the brass horn blared, the horse pulled back, but the bronze sickle swung bright in the firelight. The horse screamed, staggering, blood gushing, and sank dying to its knees.

Aderyn began to sob aloud. Gweran threw his arms around him, pulled him into his lap, and let the child bury his face against his father’s shirt. He was wise to hide his eyes as the priests began dismembering the horse with long bronze knives. From his bard-lore, Gweran knew that in the Dawntime, the victim would have been a man, and that this horse represented the god’s growing mercy to his people, but the knowledge would have been no comfort to his tender-hearted Aderyn. The horns blew again as the priests worked, their arms bloody to the elbows.

At last Obyn cut a strip of bleeding meat and wrapped it in thick fat from the horse’s thigh. With a long wailing chant, he laid the sacrifice in the midst of the flames. The fat sputtered and caught, flaring up with a smoky halo.

“Great Bel,” Obyn cried. “Have mercy.”

“Have mercy,” the crowd sighed.

The young priest blew a great blare on the horn.

The rite ended soon after. Since Aderyn was weeping as if his heart would break, Gweran picked him up and carried him as he looked desperately around for Lyssa in the scattering crowd. Instead he found Nevyn, who was leaning against a tree and watching the flame-lit altar with a sour smile.

“Oh, here, here, Addo,” Nevyn said, the smile disappearing. “It’s all over now. It’s a pity, sure enough, but the poor beast is dead and beyond suffering.”

“They shouldn’t have,” Aderyn sobbed. “It won’t even do any good.”

“It won’t. But what’s done is done, and you’d best not talk of it right here, where the people can hear you. They need to think it will help.”

Slowly, Aderyn sniffled himself to silence, wiping his face on his sleeve. Gweran kissed him and set him down, taking his hand and drawing him close.

“Well, bard?” Nevyn said. “Do you think this will bring rain?”

“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But either way, the god will be pleased.”

“True spoken. And pious of you, truly.”

The old man walked off, leaving Gweran puzzled and more than a bit uneasy. As the crowd dispersed toward the village, Gweran finally saw Lyssa, hurrying to meet them. Just behind came Cadda, with one of the riders who was carrying the still-sleeping Acern. When Gweran recognized Tanyc, he was annoyed. Here he’d told Doryn to keep this young lout away from Cadda. As he thought about it, he realized he’d seen a lot of Tanyc lately, still hanging around the lass, sitting near her when she and Lyssa were in the ward, or walking conveniently to meet them when she and Lyssa were leaving the dun.

That very next morning, Gweran sought Doryn out when he came down into the great hall for breakfast. He waved the captain over to the side of the hall where they could be private and put his complaint to him. Doryn looked honestly surprised.

“Well, curse the little bastard! I did talk to him, Gweran, and here he managed to convince me he didn’t give a pig’s fart for Cadda.”

“There’s nothing like lust to make a man lie. Here, I’ll have a word with the lad myself later.”

It was afternoon before Gweran could get away from his lord’s side long enough to go look for Tanyc, but when he found him, he found Cadda with him. Out in the ward, Tanyc was grooming his horse while Cadda stood beside him. She was telling him some long complex tale about her elder sister while Tanyc listened with an occasional nod. As Gweran strode over, Cadda made him a hurried curtsy.

“I’m sure your lady wants you,” Gweran said.

With one last smile in Tanyc’s direction, Cadda ran for the tower. Tanyc looked up, the currycomb in his hand.

“My thanks,” Tanyc said. “By the hells, doesn’t that lass ever hold her tongue?”

“Every now and then. You can’t find it as displeasing as that. You seem to seek out her company whenever you can.”

Tanyc looked at him with a barely concealed contempt.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. What’s it to you?”

“Maybe nothing at all—as long as you fancy yourself as a married man someday. I warn you, if Cadda ends up with child, I’m speaking to Lord Maroic about it. I don’t care how many men in the warband you get to lie and swear they’ve had her, too. She’ll be your wife.”

Tanyc’s hand tightened on the currycomb so hard that Gweran was surprised the wood didn’t crack. Rather than push things to a formal exchange of insults, Gweran turned and walked away. If things ever came to a fight, doubtless Tanyc could cut him to pieces with a sword. Tanyc, of course, knew it, too. When he told Lyssa that he’d spoken to Tanyc, she smiled, remarking that since she didn’t care for the man, she’d be glad to have him stop turning up constantly at her servant’s side.