Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

During one of these aimless rambles he ran across Cullyn, down by the back wall of the dun. Although his left arm was still in a sling, Cullyn was working out with one of the light wooden swords used to train young boys. Moving so slowly that it was a kind of dance, Cullyn was lunging and falling back while he described a figure eight with the point of the blade in a perfect concentration that was more like a dweomer than swordplay. Even sore and weak, Cullyn was a marvel when he moved with a weapon in his hand. Finally he noticed that Rhodry was watching him and stopped to make him a bow.

“How does your arm fare?” Rhodry said.

“Not too badly, my lord. Maybe tomorrow we’ll get the splints off for a look, the herbman tells me.” Cullyn glanced around, then pointed at a second wooden sword that was leaning against the wall. “Ever tried to spar this slowly?”

“I haven’t.” Rhodry took the sword. “Looks like a good game.”

To keep things fair, Rhodry tucked his left arm behind his back. The sparring seemed like a humorous parody of real combat at first, with both of them moving like men in a trance. It was a matter of moving in slowly, catching the other’s blade in a parry, then ever so slowly breaking free to glide in again from another direction. Yet it was difficult, too. Rhodry had never been so aware of every subtle move he made when he was fighting and of every move his opponent was making as well. Keeping his concentration so finely honed was a struggle. Finally his mind wandered a little too far, and Cullyn slipped slowly under his guard and flicked his shirt with the blunt point of his sword.

“By the hells!” Rhodry said. “A touch, sure enough.”

Cullyn smiled and saluted him with the wooden sword, but all at once Rhodry felt that he was in danger, that wooden or not, that blade could kill him in Cullyn of Cerrmor’s hands, and that Cullyn was thinking just that.

“Somewhat wrong, my lord?”

“Naught. Here, you’ve done enough for one day.”

“So I have. It gripes my heart to admit it, but I’m tired. Ah, well, I’ll get my strength back soon enough.”

Again Rhodry felt a shudder of danger, as if Cullyn were giving him a warning. Had he noticed the way Rhodry had been looking at Jill? If he’d been obvious, Cullyn might well have. Rhodry wanted to say something reassuring, some good plausible lie to put Cullyn at ease, but he was just sensible enough to realize that he’d best not speak Jill’s name where her father could hear it.

“It looks remarkably good,” Nevyn said. “I’m pleased.”

Cullyn was glad that the herbman was pleased, because to him his once-broken arm looked bad—white flesh, puckered and wrinkled, and far thinner than his other arm after the long weeks in the splints.

“The break mended fairly straight,” the old man went on. “It should be good enough for shield work if you’re careful about building it up. Favor it for some time.”

“My thanks, truly, for all your work on me.”

“You’re most welcome.” Nevyn paused, consideringly. “Truly, you are.”

Now that his wounds were fully healed, it was time for Cullyn to formally take Rhodry’s service. That very night, before everyone in the dun, assembled in the great hall, he knelt at Rhodry’s feet. Rhodry leaned forward in his chair and took both of Cullyn’s hands in his. By the flaring torchlight, Cullyn could see how solemn the young lord looked. It was a grave thing they were doing.

“And will you serve me truly all your life?” Rhodry said.

“I will. I’ll fight for you and die with you if need be.”

“Then may every bard in the kingdom mock and shame me if ever I treat you unjustly, or if ever I’m miserly to you.”

Rhodry took a comb from a waiting page and made the ritual strokes through Cullyn’s hair to seal the bargain. As Cullyn rose to the cheering of the warband, he felt strangely light and free, even though he’d just pledged his life away. The thought was puzzling, but he somehow knew that he had just repaid a debt.

Now that he was officially the captain of the tieryn’s warband, Cullyn was back in the barracks, but he had a chamber of his own over the tack room, not over the horses, with a proper bed, a chest for his clothes, and the biggest luxury of all, a hearth of his own. When he moved in, Amyr carried up his saddlebags and bedroll, and Praedd brought an armload of firewood—two prudent moves to curry favor with the man who had the power to discipline them with a whip if need be. Cullyn hung his new shield, blazoned with the red lion, up on the wall and decided that he’d unpacked.

“Well and good, lads. We’ll be taking the horses out soon. I want to see how well you all sit on a horse, now that I’m not distracted by little things like dweomer.”

The two riders allowed themselves small smiles.

“Captain?” Amyr said. “Are you and Lord Rhodry going to start finding new men soon?”

“Cursed right. We’re badly under strength.”

They were, truly, because out of the fifty men Rhodry had had at Dun Cannobaen, only seventeen were left, and out of the fifty from Dun Gwerbyn, only thirty-two. Yet Cullyn knew that, soon enough, young men would show up at the gates to beg for a place in the warband. Not for them to worry that places were open because of so many bloody deaths; they would want the honor enough to ignore such an inconvenient fact—the honor, the chance at glory, and at root, the freedom from the drudgery of their father’s farm or craft shop. That very afternoon, when Cullyn went down to the ward to exercise, three of the spearmen from Cannobaen asked him if they could join.

“At least you know what a war’s like. I’ll speak to Lord Rhodry for you.”

And they were grateful, sincerely and deeply grateful, that such an important man as he would do them a favor.

Rhodry was gone from the great hall, and the pages had no idea of where he was. Cullyn searched the ward, and finally, as he passed by a storage shed, he heard Rhodry’s voice and a woman’s giggle—Jill. Cullyn felt that he’d been turned into a tree and taken root on the spot. He’d been a fool to take Rhodry’s offer; Jill was very beautiful, and Rhodry already had sired one bastard, hadn’t he? Since he couldn’t quite hear what they were saying he cautiously edged around the shed until he could just see them, standing between a stack of firewood and the dun wall. They were a decent space apart, but they were smiling at each other with such absorption that they never looked up and saw him.

Cullyn’s hand sought his sword hilt of its own will, but he forced it away. He’d sworn a solemn oath to Rhodry, and later he’d have a talk with Jill. As he walked away, he saw Nevyn coming toward him.

“Looking for me?” Cullyn said.

“For Jill, actually. Her Grace wants her.”

“She’s back there.” Cullyn jerked his thumb in her general direction. “Talking with Rhodry.”

Nevyn’s eyes narrowed as he studied Cullyn’s face. Cullyn stared right back, a battle of wills that Nevyn eventually won when Cullyn could no longer bear to look at the man who knew full well the cause of his jealousy.

“Tell my lord I need a word with him, will you?” He walked off, leaving Nevyn to think what he would.

Amid piles of chain mail and racked swords in the shed that did Dun Gwerbyn for an armory, Cullyn was just taking down a practice sword when Rhodry caught up with him.

“My lord? Three of the Cannonbaen spearmen want to ride for you. They claim to know somewhat about sword-craft.”

“Try them out. If you think they’ll do, I’ll take them on. You can make that a general principle, truly. I trust your judgment of a man.”

“My thanks.”

For a long painful moment they merely looked at each other. Since Cullyn had never been given to pondering his feelings and considering subtleties, he began to feel as if he were drowning. How could he both admire Rhodry and hate him this way? It was because of Jill, but it was more than Jill. He simply couldn’t understand. His enraged bafflement must have been obvious, because Rhodry grew more and more uneasy. Yet he, too, couldn’t seem to break away, and the silence grew so thick it was painful.