THE BRISTLING WOOD
aka DAWNSPELL
by Katherine Kerr
Book Three of the Chronicles of Deverry

Scanned by Keleios; proofed by Nadie

For the profit of kings, well did he attack the hosts of the country,
the bristling wood of spears, the grievous flood of the enemy.

—The Gododdin of Ameirin, Stanza A84
Contents

    * A Note on the Pronunciation of Deverry Words
    * Prologue: Spring 1065
    *
      Part One
    *
      Deverry and Pyrdon,
      833-845
    * ONE
    * TWO
    * THREE
    * FOUR
    *
      Part Two
    *
      Summer,
      1065
    * ONE
    * TWO
    * THREE
    *
      Appendices
    * CHARACTERS AND THEIR INCARNATIONS
    * GLOSSARY


A Note on the Pronunciation of Deverry Words

The language spoken in Deverry is a member of the P-Celtic
family. Although closely related to Welsh, Cornish, and Breton, it is
by no means identical to any of these actual languages and should
never be taken as such.

Vowels are divided by Deverry scribes into two classes: noble and
common. Nobles have two pronunciations; commons, one.

A as in father when long; a shorter version of the same sound, as
in far, when short.

O as in bone when long; as in pot when short.

W as the oo in spook when long; as in roof when short.

Y as the i in machine when long; as the e in butter when short.

E as in pen.

I as in pin.

U as in pun.

Vowels are generally long in stressed syllables; short in
unstressed. Y is the primary exception to this rule. When it appears
as the last letter of a word, it is always long whether that syllable is
stressed or not.

Diphthongs generally have one consistent pronunciation.

AE as the a in mane.

AI as in aisle.

AU as the ow in how.

EO as a combination of eh and oh.

EW as in Welsh, a combination of eh and oo.

IE as in pier.

OE as the oy in boy.

UI as the North Welsh wy, a combination of oo and ee. Note that
OI is never a diphthong, but is two distinct sounds, as in carnoic
(KAR-noh-ik).

Consonants are mostly the same as in English, with these
exceptions:

C is always hard as in cat.

G is always hard as in get.

DD is the voiced th as in thin or breathe, but the voicing is more
pronounced than in English. It is opposed to TH, the unvoiced
sound as in th or breath, (This is the sound that the Greeks called
the Celtic tau.)

R is heavily rolled.

RH is a voiceless R, approximately pronounced as if it were
spelled hr in Deverry proper. In Eldidd, the sound is fast becoming
indistinguishable from R.

DW, GW, and TW are single sounds, as in Gwendolen or twit.

Y is never a consonant.

I before a vowel at the beginning of a word, is consonantal, as it is
in the plural ending -ion, pronounced yawn.

Doubled consonants are both sounded clearly, unlike in English.
Note, however, that DD is a single letter, not a doubled consonant.

Accent is generally on the penultimate syllable, but compound
words and place names are often an exception to this rule.

I have used this system of transcription for the Bardekian and
Elvish alphabets as well as the Deverrian, which is, of course,
based, on the Greek rather than the Roman model. On the whole, it
works quite well for the Bardekian, at least. As for Elvish, in a work
of this sort it would be ridiculous to resort to the elaborate
apparatus by which scholars attempt to transcribe that most subtle
and nuanced of tongues. Since the human ear cannot even
distinguish between such sound pairings as B> and B<, I see no
reason to confuse the human eye with them. I do owe many thanks
to the various Elven native speakers who have suggested which
consonant to choose in confusing cases and who have labored,
alas often in vain, to refine my ear to the Elven vowel system.

A Note on Dating:

Year 1 of the Deverry calendar is the founding of the Holy City, or,
to be more accurate, the year that King Bran saw the omen of the
white sow that instructed him where to build his capital. It
corresponds roughly to 76 C.E.

Prologue
Spring, 1065

Often those who study the dweomer complain that it speaks in
riddles. There is a reason for this riddling. What is it? Well, that
happens to be a riddle of its own.

—The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

Out in the grasslands to the west of the kingdom of Deverry, the
concepts of “day” and “month” had no meaning. The years flowed
by, slowly, on the ebb and swell of the seasons: the harsh rains of
winter, when the grass turned a bluish green and the gray sky hung
close to the earth; the spring floods, when the streams overflowed
their banks and pooled around the willows and hazels, pale green
with first leaves; the parching summer, when the grass lay pale
gold and all fires were treacherous; the first soft rains of fall, when
wildflowers bloomed briefly in purple and gold. Driving their herds
of horses and flocks of sheep, the People drifted north in the
summer’s heat and south in the winter’s cold, and as they rode,
they marked only the little things: the first stag to lose his antlers,
the last strawberries. Since the gods were always present,
traveling with their folk in the long wandering, they needed no high
holidays or special feasts in their honor. When two or three alarli,
the loosely organized traveling groups, happened to meet, then
there was a festival to celebrate the company of friends.

Yet there was one day of the year marked out from all the others:
the spring equinox, which usually signaled the start of the floods. In
the high mountains of the far north, the snows were melting,
sending a tide down through the grasslands, just as another tide,
this one of blood, had once swept over them from the north in the
far past. Even though individuals of their race lived some five
hundred years on the average, by now there were none left who’d
been present in those dark years, but the People remembered.
They made sure that their children would always remember on the
day of the equinox, when the alarli gathered in groups of ten or
twelve for the Day of Commemoration.

Even though he was eager to ride east to Deverry, Ebañy
Salomonderiel would never have left the elven lands until he’d
celebrated this most holy and terrifying of days. In the company of
his father, Devaberiel Silverhand the bard, he rode up from the
seacoast to the joining of the rivers Corapan and Delonderiel, near
the stretch of primeval forest that marked the border of the
grasslands. There, as they’d expected, they found an alardan, or
clan. Scattered in the tall grass were two hundred painted tents,
red and purple and blue, while the flocks and herds grazed
peacefully a little distance away. A little apart from the rest stood
ten unpainted tents, crudely stitched together from poorly tanned
hides.

“By the Dark Sun herself,” Devaberiel remarked. “It looks like
some of the Forest Folk have come to join us.”

“Good. It’s time they got over their fear of their own kind.”

Devaberiel nodded in agreement. He was an exceptionally
handsome man, with hair pale as moonlight, deep-set dark blue
eyes, slit vertically like a cat’s, and gracefully long pointed ears.
Although Ebañy had inherited the pale hair, in other ways he took
after his mother’s human folk; his smoky gray eyes had round
irises, and his ears, while slightly sharp, passed unnoticed in the
lands of men. They rode on, leading their eight horses, two of
which dragged travois, loaded with everything they owned. Since
Devaberiel was a bard and Ebañy, a gerthddyn—that is, a
storyteller and minstrel—they didn’t need large herds to support
themselves. As they rode up to the tents, the People ran out to
greet them, hailing the bard and vying for the honor of feeding him
and his son.

They chose to pitch the ruby-red tent near that of Tanidario, a
woman who was an old friend of the bard’s. Although she’d often
given his father advice and help as he raised his half-breed son
alone, Ebañy found it hard to think of her as a mother. Unlike his
own mother back in Eldidd, whom he vaguely remembered as soft,
pale, and cuddly, Tanidario was a hunter, a hard-muscled woman
who stood six feet tall and arrow-straight, with jet-black hair that
hung in one tight braid to her waist. Yet when she greeted him, she
kissed his cheek, caught his shoulders, and held him a bit away
while she smiled as if to say how much he’d grown.

“I’ll wager you’re looking forward to the spring hunt,” he said.

“I certainly am, little one. I’ve been making friends with the Forest
Folk, and they’ve offered to show me how to hunt with a spear in
the deep woods. I’m looking forward to the challenge.”

Ebañy merely smiled.

“I know you,” Tanidario said with a laugh. “Your idea of hunting is
finding a soft bed with a pretty lass in it. Well, maybe when you’re
fully grown, you’ll see things more clearly.”

“I happen to be seventy-four this spring.”

“A mere child.” She tousled his hair with a callused hand. “Well,
come along. The gathering’s already beginning. Where’s your
father gotten himself to?”

“He went with the other bards. He’ll be singing right after the
Retelling.”

Down by the river, some of the People had lashed together a
rough platform out of travois poles, where Devaberiel stood
conferring with four other bards. All around it the crowd spread out,
the adults sitting cross-legged in the grass while restless children
wandered around. Ebañy and Tanidario sat on the edge near a little
group of Forest Folk. Although they looked like the other elves,
they were dressed in rough leather clothes, and each man carried
a small notched stick, bound with feathers and colored thread,
which were considered magical among their kind. Although they
normally lived in the dense forests to the north, at times they drifted
south to trade with the rest of the People. Since they had never
been truly civilized, the events that they were gathered to
remember had spared them.

Gradually the crowd quieted, and the children sat down by their
parents. On the platform four bards, Devaberiel among them, took
their places at the back, arms crossed over their chests, legs
braced a little apart, a solemn honor guard for the storyteller.
Manaver Contariel’s son, the eldest of them all, came forward and
raised his arms high in the air. With a shock, Ebañy realized that
this would be the last year that this bard would retell the story. He
was starting to show his age, his hair white and thin, his face
pouched and wrinkled. When one of the People aged, it meant
death was near.

“His father was there at the Burning,” Tanidario whispered.

Ebañy merely nodded his acknowledgment, because Manaver was
lowering his arms.

“We are here to remember.” His highly trained voice seemed to
boom out in the warm stillness.

“To remember,” the crowd sighed back. “To remember the west.”

“We are here to remember the cities, Rinbaladelan of the Fair
Towers, Tanbalapalim of the Wide River, Bravelmelim of the
Rainbow Bridges, yea, to remember the cities, and the towns, and
all the marvels of the far, far west. They have been taken from us,
they lie in ruins, where the owls and the foxes prowl, and weeds
and thistles crack the courtyards of the palaces of the Seven
Kings.”

The crowd sighed wordlessly, then settled in to listen to the tale
that some had heard five hundred times or more. Even though he
was half a Deverry man, Ebañy felt tears rise in his throat for the
lost splendor and the years of peace, when in the hills and well-
watered plains of the far west, the People lived in cities full of
marvels and practiced every art and craft until their works were so
perfect that some claimed them dweomer.

Over a thousand years ago, so long that some doubted when the
Burning had begun, whether it was a thousand and two hundred
years or only a thousand and one, several millions of the People
lived under the rule of the Seven Kings in a long age of peace.
Then the omens began. For five winters the snows fell high; for
five springs, floods swept down the river. In the sixth winter,
farmers in the northern province reported that the wolves seemed
to have gone mad, hunting in big packs and attacking travelers
along the road. The sages agreed that the wolves must have been
desperate and starving, and this coupled with the weather meant
famine in the mountains, perhaps even some sort of blight or
plague that might move south. In council the Seven Kings made
plans: a fair method of stockpiling food and distributing it to those
in need, a small military levy to deal with the wolf packs. They also
gathered dweomerfolk and sages around them to combat the
threats and to lend their lore to farmers in need. In the sixth spring,
squadrons of royal archers went forth to guard the north, but they
thought they were only hunting wolves.

When the attack came, it broke like an avalanche and buried the
archers in corpses. No one truly knew who the enemies were; they
were neither human nor elvish, but a squat breed like enormous
dwarves, dressed in skins, and armed only with crude spears and
axes. For all their poor weapons, their warriors fought with such
enraged ferocity that they seemed not to care whether they lived or
died. There were also thousands of them, and they traveled
mounted. When the sages rushed north with the first
reinforcements, they reported that the language of the Hordes was
utterly unknown to them. Half-starved, desperately fleeing some
catastrophe in their homeland, they burned and ravaged and looted
as they came. Since the People had never seen horses before,
the attackers had a real advantage, first of surprise, then of mobility
once the elves grew used to the horrifying beasts. By the time that
they realized that horses were even more vulnerable to arrows than
men, the north was lost, and Tanbalapalim a heap of smoking
timbers and cracked stone.

The kings rallied the People and led them to war. After every man
and woman who could loose a bow marched north, for a time the
battles held even. Although the corpse fires burned day and night
along the roads, still the invaders marched in under the smoke.
Since he pitied their desperation, King Elamanderiel Sun-Sworn
tried to parley with the leaders and offered them the eastern
grasslands for their own. In answer, they slew his honor guard and
ran his head onto a long spear, which they paraded in front of their
men for days. After that, no mercy was offered. Children marched
north with bows to take the places of their fallen parents, yet still
the Hordes came.

By autumn the middle provinces were swept away in a tide of
blood. Although many of the People fell back in a last desperate
attempt to hold Rinbaladelan on the coast, most fled, taking their
livestock, rounding up the horses that had given the invaders such
an edge, loading wagons and trekking east to the grasslands that
the Hordes despised. Rinbaladelan fought out the winter, then fell
in the spring. More refugees came east, carrying tales the more
horrible because so common. Every clan had had its women
raped, its children killed and eaten, its houses burned down around
those too weak to flee. Everyone had seen a temple defiled, an
aqueduct mindlessly toppled, a farm looted then burned instead of
appropriated for some good use. All summer, refugees trickled
in—and starved. They were settled folk, unused to hunting except
for sport. When they tried to plant their hoarded seed grains, the
harsh grasslands gave them only stunted crops. Yet in a way few
cared whether they lived another winter or not, because they were
expecting that the enemy would soon follow them east. Some fled
into the forests to seek refuge among the primitive tribes; a few
reached what later became Eldidd; most stayed, waiting for the
end.

But the Hordes never came. Slowly the People learned to survive
by living off their flocks and herds while they explored what the
grasslands had to offer them. They ate things—and still did—that
would have made the princes of the Vale of Roses vomit; lizards
and snakes, the entrails of deer and antelope as well as the fine
meat, roots and tubers grubbed out wherever they grew. They
learned to dry horse dung to supplement the meager firewood;
they abandoned the wagons that left deep ruts in the grassland that
now fed them in its own way. They boiled fish heads for glues and
used tendons for bowstrings as they moved constantly from one
foraging ground to another. Not only did they survive, but children
were born, replacing those killed in flash floods and hunting
accidents.

Finally, thirty-two years after the Burning, the last of the Seven
Kings, Ranadar of the High Mountain, found his people again. With
the last six archers of the Royal Guard he rode into an alardan one
spring and told how he and his men had lived among the hills like
bandits, taking what vengeance they could for their fallen country
and begging the gods to send more. Now the gods had listened to
their grief. While the Hordes could conquer cities, they had no idea
how to rebuild them. They lived in rough huts among the ruins and
tried to plant land they’d poisoned. Although every ugly member of
them wore looted jewels, they let the sewers fill with muck while
they fought over the dwindling spoils. Plague had broken out
among them, diseases of several different kinds, all deadly and
swift. When he spoke of the dying of the Hordes, Ranadar howled
aloud with laughter like a madman, and the People laughed with
him.

For a long time there was talk of a return, of letting the plagues do
their work, then slaughtering the last of the Hordes and taking back
the shattered kingdom. For two hundred years, until Ranadar’s
death, men gathered nightly around the campfires to scheme.
Every now and then, a few foolhardy young men would ride back to
spy. Even fewer returned, but those who did spoke of general ruin
and disease still raging. If life in the grasslands hadn’t been so
harsh at first, perhaps an army might have marched west, but every
year, there were almost as many deaths as births. Finally, some
four hundred and fifty years after the Burning, some of the younger
men organized a major scouting party to ride to Rinbaladelan.

“And I was among them, a young man,” Manaver said, his voice
near breaking at the memory. “With twenty friends I rode west, for
many a time had I heard my father speak of Rinbaladelan of the
Fair Towers, and I longed to see it, even though the sight might
bring my death. We took many quivers of arrows, for we expected
many a bloody skirmish with the last of the Hordes.” He paused for
a twisted, self-mocking smile. “But they were gone, long dead, and
so was Rinbaladelan. My father had told me of the high temples,
covered with silver and jet; I saw grassy mounds. He told of towers
five hundred feet high made of many-colored stones; I found a
broken piece here and there. He told of vast processions down
wide streets; I traced out the grassy tracks. Here and there, I found
a stone hut, cobbled out of the ruins. In some, I found skeletons
lying unburied on the floor, the last of the Hordes.”

The crowd sighed, a grief-torn wind over the grassland. Near the
front a little girl squirmed free of her mother’s lap and stood up.

“Then why didn’t we go back, if they were all dead?” she called out
in a clear, high voice.

Although her mother grabbed her, the rest of the gathering
laughed, a melancholy chuckle at a child’s boldness, a relief after
so much tragedy. Manaver smiled at the little girl.

“Back to what, sweet one?” he said. “The kingdom was dead, a
tangle of overgrowth and ruins. We’d brought our gods to the
grasslands, and the grasslands became our mother. Besides, the
men who knew how to lay out fine cities and smelt iron and work in
stone were all dead. Those of us who survived were mostly
farmers, herdsmen, or foresters. What did we know about building
roads and working rare metals?”

Her mouth working in thought, the girl twisted one ankle around the
other. Finally she looked up at the dying bard.

“And will we never go back, then?”

“Well, ‘never’ is a harsh word, and one that you should keep closed
in your mouth, but I doubt it, sweet one. Yet we remember the fair
cities, our birthright, our home.”

Even though the People sighed out the word “remember” with
proper respect, no one wept, because none of them had ever
seen the Vale of Roses or walked the Sun Road to the temples.
With a nod, Manaver stepped back to allow Devaberiel forward to
sing a dirge for the fallen land. The songs would go on for hours,
each bard taking a turn and singing of happier and happier things,
until at last the alardan would feast and celebrate, dancing far into
the night. Ebañy got up and slipped away. Since he’d heard his
father practice the dirge for some months, he was heartily sick of it.
Besides, his Deverry blood pricked him with guilt, as it did every
year on the Day of Commemoration.

By talking with Deverry scholars, Ebañy had pieced together
something about the Burning that no one else knew. Since it would
only lead to hatred between his two races of kinfolk, he kept the
secret even from his father. The Hordes had been driven south by
the great influx of the people of Bel, as the Deverry men called
themselves, when they’d come from their mysterious homeland
over a thousand years ago. Although to the People’s way of
thinking the Deverry men were a bloodthirsty lot, in the old days
they’d been ruthless conquerors, hunting their enemies’ heads to
decorate the temples of their gods, In their wanderings before they
founded their holy city, they’d swept through the far north,
slaughtering, looting, enslaving some of the strange race, even,
before they passed down the valley of the Aver Troe Matrw to their
new lands. And the Hordes had fled before them, fled south.

“You never lifted a sword against us, O men of Deverry,” Ebañy
whispered aloud. “But you slaughtered my father’s people sure
enough.”

With a little shudder, he ducked into the tent, where the sun came
through the dyed leather and turned the air to ruby. Since they’d
arrived late for the alardan, piles of tent bags and gear lay
scattered on the leather ground cloth. Idly he picked up a few bags
and hung them from the hooks on the tent poles, then sat down, in
the clutter to poke through a canvas bag of the Deverry sort. Down
at the bottom he found a tiny leather pouch, opened it, and took out
a simple silver ring. A flat band about a third of an inch wide, it was
engraved with roses on the outside and words in Elvish characters
but some unknown language on the inside. The roses caught the
reddish light and seemed to bloom double hybrids of the cultivated
sort now found only in Deverry,

“And are you spoil from Rinbaladelan or Tanbalapalim?” he asked
it. “The only roses my people know now are the wild ones with their
five meager little petals.”

The ring lay mute on his palm, a gleaming paradox. Although it
possessed no dweomer of its own, it was tied to the dweomer.
Many years ago a mysterious, nameless wanderer had given it to
Devaberiel as a present for one of his as yet unborn sons. Now the
omen reading of a dweomerwoman showed that it belonged to
Rhodry, the youngest of the three and, like Ebañy, a half-breed.
But unlike Ebañy’s, Rhodry’s mother was no pretty village lass, but
one of the most powerful noblewomen in the kingdom. Rhodry
could never learn the truth about his real father, who had given
Ebañy the task of taking the ring to him.

“And what am, I supposed to tell him, when I find him?” he
grumbled aloud, because talking came much easier to him than
thinking. “Oh, well, this peculiar personage said it was yours but I
can’t tell you why. Of course, I don’t know why it’s yours—no one
does—so, dear brother, I won’t be lying to you when I make my
most feeble excuses. One dweomer says it encircles your Wyrd,
and an other working says that your Wyrd is Eldidd’s Wyrd, and so
here we are in the land of vagaries, nuances, and secrets. Ah, by
the gods, doesn’t my elvish curiosity ache to know the truth!”

With a laugh, he slipped the ring back into its wrapping, then put
that pouch into the one he carried around his neck. Soon he would
be riding into the lands of men, where thieves prowl, and he would
need a better hiding place for the ring than an open canvas sack.
Thinking of the journey ahead of him, he went outside and
wandered down to the riverbank, where the Delonderiel rolled by,
flecked with gold in the lowering sun. Distantly he heard his father’s
voice, firm and clear in its sorrow as the stanzas marched on. He
stared at the river and used it to focus his mind, until at last his
dweomer scryed Rhodry out, a pale image of him at first, then a
clear picture.

Rhodry was standing on the ramparts of a rough stone dun and
looking out over countryside where patches of snow still lay under
dark pine trees. He was wrapped in a cloak, and his breath came in
a frosty puff. Now that Ebañy knew they shared a father, he could
see what had eluded him the summer before, when he’d met
Rhodry by chance and wondered why this young warrior looked so
familiar. Although Rhodry had raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue
eyes, they looked enough alike to be what they were, brothers. As
he studied the resemblance, Ebañy found himself grumbling again.

“So I’m not supposed to tell you the truth, brother, am I? What am I
supposed to do, smash every mirror within your reach? Rhodry has
to think himself human and a Maelwaedd, says my master in
dweomer. Oh, splendid! Then I’d best hand over this ring and
disappear before you look too closely at my face!”

In the vision, Rhodry’s image suddenly turned and seemed to be
staring right at him, as if he were listening to his faraway kin. Ebañy
smiled at him, then widened the vision, switching his point of view
this way and that around the countryside to the limits of the scrying,
about two miles away from its focus. He saw sharp rocky hills,
covered with pine, and here and there among them small farms,
Most likely Rhodry was in the province of Cerrgonney, then, a good
five hundred miles away at the very least.

“It’s going to be a long summer’s riding, then, Ebañy, lad,” he told
himself. “On the other hand, it would be a wretched shame to leave
before the feasting’s over.”

Although it was cold up on the ramparts of Lord Gwogyr’s dun,
Rhodry lingered there a few moments longer and looked out over
the Cerrgonney hills without truly seeing them. For a moment he
wondered if he were going daft, because it seemed he’d heard
someone talking to him though he was the only man on the walls.
The words had been indistinct, but someone had called him
brother and talked of giving him a gift. In irritation he tossed his
head and decided that it had only been some trick of the wind,
Since the only brother he knew of hated him with his very soul, it
was unlikely that he’d be giving him any gift but a dagger in the
back, and those words—if words they were—had sounded warm
and friendly.

Leaning back against the damp stone, he pulled his silver dagger
from his belt and looked at it while he idly thought of his elder
brother, Rhys, Gwerbret Aberwyn, who had sent him into exile
some years before. Although the dagger was a beautiful thing, as
sharp as steel but gleaming like silver, it was a mark of shame,
branding him a dishonored mercenary soldier who fought only for
coin, never for honor. It was time for him to wander down the long
road, as the silver daggers called their lives, Although he’d fought
well for Lord Gwogyr last fall, even taking a wound in his service, a
silver dagger’s welcome was a short one, and already the
chamberlain was grumbling about having to feed him and his
woman. Sheathing the dagger, he glanced up at the sky, cold but
clear. It was likely that the snows were long past.

“Tomorrow we’ll ride,” he said aloud. “And if you were thinking of
me, brother, may the thought turn your guts to ire.”

Far to the south, in a little town in Eldidd, an event was happening
that would indeed bring Gwerbret Rhys the sort of pain his younger
brother had wished upon him, even though Rhodry had no way of
knowing it. Dun Bruddlyn, a fort only recently disposed upon its
lord, Garedd, was filled with a tense sort of bustle. While the lord
himself paced restlessly in his great hall with a goblet of mead in
his hand his second wife, Donilla, was giving birth, up in the
women’s hall. Since this was her first child, the labor was a long
one, and Tieryn Lovyan, as well as the other women in attendance,
were beginning to worry. Her face dead white, her long chestnut
hair soaked with sweat, Donilla crouched on the birthing stool and
clung to the thick rope tied from one of the beams far above. Her
serving woman, Galla, knelt beside her and wiped her face every
now and then with a cloth soaked in cold water.

“Let her suck a bit of moisture from a clean rag,” said the herbman
who was attending the birth. “But just a bit.”

Another serving lass hurried to get clean cloth and fresh water
without a moment’s hesitation. Not only was old Nevyn known as
the best herbman in the kingdom, but it was widely rumored that he
had the dweomer. Lovyan smiled at the lass’s awe, but only
slightly, because she knew full well that the rumors were true.
When she glanced at Nevyn in a questioning sort of way, he gave
her a reassuring smile, then spoke to Donilla. His ice-blue eyes
seemed to bore into her soft brown ones and capture her very
soul. With a sigh she relaxed as if some of the pain had left her.

“It’ll be soon now, my lady.” His voice was very soft and kind.
“Breathe deeply now, but don’t bear down on the babe. It’ll be
coming soon.”

Donilla nodded, gasped at a contraction, and let out her breath in a
long, smooth sigh. Although Lovyan had given birth to four sons
herself, she couldn’t remember her own labors being this difficult.
Perhaps I’ve just forgotten, she thought. One does forget the pain,
and so oddly soon. Restlessly she paced to an open window and
looked out on the bright spring day while she considered the irony.
Poor Donilla had been so eager to have a child; now she was
probably wishing that she truly had been barren. When the younger
woman moaned again, Lovyan winced in sympathy.

“It’s crowning, my lady!” Nevyn crowed in victory. “Soon, very soon.
Now—bear down.”

Lovyan stayed at the window until she heard the high-pitched wail,
a good, healthy cry at that. She turned around to see Nevyn and the
serving woman laying Donilla down on the pallet prepared by the
stool and laying the babe, still attached by the cord, at her breast.
With trembling fingers the lady stroked the soft fuzz on her child’s
head and smiled in wide-eyed triumph.

“A son, Your Grace!” she croaked. “I’ve given my lord another
son.”

“And a fine healthy one, at that,” Lovyan said. “Shall I go tell his
lordship the good news?”

Donilla nodded, her eyes on the tiny face already nuzzling at her
breast.

As she went downstairs, Lovyan’s heart was heavy, and she felt
badly about it. Of course Donilla deserved this moment of triumph,
of vindication. After ten years of a childless marriage, her first
husband had cast her off as barren, a bitter humiliation for any
woman to bear, worse than the heartbreaking thought that she
would never have children. Now she had her son, and everyone in
Eldidd knew that she wasn’t the barren one. Unfortunately, her
small triumph had important political consequences, of which her
second husband seemed to be painfully aware. Garedd was a man
of middle years, with two sons and a daughter by his first marriage;
a solid sort with gray in his blond hair and mustaches, he was
genuinely pleased at Lovyan’s news, breaking out into a laugh and
yelling that he had a son to his warband across the hall. Then,
almost instantly, he wiped the look of triumph off his face.

“My apologies for gloating, Your Grace,” he said. “But it takes a
man that way.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, cousin,” Lovyan said wearily.
“Nor to Rhys, either, though I’d advise you to stay away from
Aberwyn for a while.”

“I was planning to, truly.”

There lay the crux of the matter; Gwerbret Rhys had been Donilla’s
first husband, the one who had shamed her as barren because he
had no heirs for his vast rhan, one of the most important in the
entire kingdom. If he died childless, as now seemed most likely,
Eldidd could well break out into open war as the various candidates
tried to claim the gwerbretrhyn for their own clan. Although Lovyan
was fond of her cousin and his wife, she was here to witness the
birth because of its political implications. Since she was the tieryn
of Dun Gwerbyn, with many vassals and large holdings, her time
was too valuable for her to ride around the countryside playing at
midwife for her vassals’ wives. But it had been necessary that she
see with her own eyes that, truly, Donilla had given birth to a child.

“Do you think Rhys will adopt a son?” Garedd said.

“I have no idea what Rhys will or won’t do anymore, for all that he’s
my firstborn son. An adopted heir won’t have much of a chance in
the Council of Electors anyway. The sensible thing for him to do
would be recall Rhodry from exile.”

Garedd raised one questioning eyebrow.

“I haven’t given up hope yet,” Lovyan snapped. “But truly, my lord, I
understand your skepticism.”

In another half hour, Nevyn came down to the great hall. A tall man
with a thick shock of white hair and a face as wrinkled as old burlap,
still he moved with strength, striding up to the table of honor and
making Garedd a smooth bow. When he announced that the lord
could visit the lady, Garedd was off like a flushed hare, because he
loved his young wife in an almost unseemly way. Nevyn accepted a
tankard of ale from a page and sat down beside Lovyan.

“Well,” he remarked. “She had a remarkably good first birth for a
woman her age. Knowing you, you’re pleased in spite of yourself.”

“Just that. I was always fond of her. If only some other beastly man
had cast her off.”

Nevyn gave her a thin smile and had a well-deserved swallow of
ale.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he said. “Going to Dun Deverry. Now that
I have a nephew at court, I can hear some of the gossip from the
king’s councils.”

“Nephew, indeed! But I’m glad he’s there, all the same. I’m
beginning to think that our only hope is to get our liege to override
Rhys’s sentence of exile. It’s happened before.”

“Gwerbrets have also risen in rebellion against such meddling. Do
you think Rhys will?”

“I don’t know. Ah, by the Goddess herself, it aches my heart to
think of war coming to Eldidd, and all over my two squabbling
sons!”

“The war hasn’t started yet, and I’m going to do my cursed best to
make sure it doesn’t.”

Yet he looked so weary that she was suddenly frightened. Even
though he was the most powerful dweomerman in the kingdom, he
was still only one man. He was also caught up in political intrigue
that—or so it seemed to her—his magical calling would ill equip
him to handle.

“Ah well,” she said at last. “At least the child himself was born with
good omens. They always say it’s a lucky lad who’s born the first
day of spring.”

“So they do, and let’s hope this spring is as well omened for us
all.”

The absent way he spoke made her realize that he very much
doubted it would be. She was hesitating, half wanting to ask more,
half afraid to hear the truth if he should tell her, when a page came
over to her. The young lad looked utterly confused.

“Your Grace? There’s a noble lord at the gates. Should I ask you
what to do, or go find Lord Garedd?”

“You may ask me, because I’m of higher rank. If I were of the
same rank as Garedd, you’d have to go find him. Now. Which
noble lord is it?”

“Talidd of Belglaedd, Your Grace. He said the strangest thing. He
asked if he was welcome in the dun that should have been his.”

Beside her Nevyn swore under his breath.

“Oh ye gods,” Lovyan said feebly. “He would turn up right now!
Well, lad, run and tell him that indeed he’s welcome in the dun
called Bruddlyn. Tell him that exactly and not a word more.”

As soon as the page was on his way, Nevyn turned to her with the
lift of a quizzical eyebrow.

“It all goes back to Loddlaen’s war,” she said, her voice heavy with
weariness. “Talidd’s sister was Corbyn’s wife. She went back to
her brother before the war even started, because having Loddlaen
in the dun was driving her daft, and I can’t say I blame her for that,
frankly. But then, after Corbyn was killed, I attainted this demesne
because she’d left her husband. All my loyal men would have
grumbled if I hadn’t. I offered her a settlement of coin and horses,
but Talidd refused to let her take a copper or a filly of it.”

She broke off because the subject of this explanation was striding
into the great hall, stripping off his cloak and riding gloves as he did
so. Talidd of Belglaedd was a heavyset man of forty, with gray hair
still streaked with blond, and shrewd green eyes. Tossing his cloak
to the page, he came over and made the tieryn a deep bow. His
bland smile revealed nothing at all.

“I’m surprised to see you here, my lord,” Lovyan said.

“I came to congratulate Garedd on the birth of a child. The page
tells me it’s a lad.”

“It is, and a healthy one.”

“Then Dun Bruddlyn has yet another heir, does it?” Talidd paused
to take a tankard of ale from a serving lass. “Well, the gods may
witness the justice of that.”

Lovyan debated challenging him then and there. If she’d been a
man, and thus able to fight her own duels, she might well have
done it, but as it was, she would have to call for a champion.
Answering that call would be the captain of her warband, Cullyn of
Cerrmor, who was without doubt the best swordsman in all
Deverry. It seemed rather unfair to sentence Talidd to certain
death for a few nasty remarks.

“I choose to ignore that, my lord,” Lovyan said, and she put ice in
her voice. “If you feel injured, you may put your case before the
gwerbret, and I shall come to court at his order.”

“The gwerbret, Your Grace, happens to be your son.”

“So he is, and I scrupulously raised him to be a fair-minded man.”

At that Talidd looked down abruptly at the table, and he had the
decency to blush. In the duel of words, Lovyan had scored the first
touch.

“I’m surprised you’d come here just to pour vinegar in an old
wound,” she said.

“The matter’s of great moment for the gwerbretrhyn, isn’t it? You
forget, Your Grace, that I hold a seat on the Council of Electors.”

Lovyan had forgotten, and she cursed herself mentally for the
lapse. Talidd had a sip of ale and smiled his bland, secretive smile
at her and Nevyn impartially.

“I was hoping I’d be in time to witness the birth,” he said at last. “I
take it there were witnesses not of this household.”

“Myself and the herbman here.”

“And none, my lady, would dare dispute your word, not in open
court or in private meeting.” The smile grew less bland. “We may
take it as a given that, indeed, the Lady Donilla’s not barren, no
matter what seemed to be the case before.”

Lovyan gave him a brilliant smile and hated his very heart.

“Just so, my lord. I take it as another given that you’ll be
summoning the council with this news as soon as ever you can.”

Talidd left well before the evening meal with the remark that he had
a better welcome nearby. He sounded so martyred, so genuinely
injured, that Nevyn felt like kicking him all the way out of the great
hall. For Lovyan’s sake, he refrained. Instead he went up to look in
on Donilla, who was by then resting in her own bed with the
swaddled babe beside her. In some minutes Lovyan joined him
there, her expression as placid as if she’d never heard Talidd’s
name, and made a few pleasantries to the younger woman. Nevyn
left when she did, following her to the chamber in the suite that had
been allotted to her on this visit. Although plain, it was obviously
furnished with Dun Bruddlyn’s best; her cousin and his lady both
had reason to be grateful for her gift of this demesne, as she
remarked.

“Although it’s turning out to be a troubled gift, sure enough,” Nevyn
said. “I didn’t realize Talidd felt so strongly.”

“Him and half the lords in the tierynrhyn. I knew there’d be trouble
when I gave it to Garedd, but there’d have been trouble no matter
what I did. Well, I suppose if I’d apportioned it to you, no one
would have grumbled, but you didn’t want it, and so here we are.”

“Come now, Lovva! You almost make me feel guilty.”

“I like that ‘almost.’ But truly, whenever an overlord has land to give,
there’s bound to be injured feelings. I only wish that Talidd didn’t
have a seat on the council. Ah ye gods, what a nasty thing this is
becoming! Even if Rhys’s wife did have a babe now, no one would
believe it was his.”

“Just so. I—”

With the bang of a door and a gleeful howl of laughter, a child of
about two came charging into the chamber with a nursemaid in
pursuit. She was slender for her age, with a mop of curly, raven-
dark hair and violet eyes, almost as dark a purple as an elf’s—all in
all, a breathtakingly beautiful child. With a gurgle, she threw herself
into Lovyan’s exalted lap.

“Granna, Granna, love you, Granna.”

“And I love you, too, Rhodd-let, but you’re being naughty and
interrupting.”

Rhodda twisted in her lap and looked solemnly at Nevyn. The
family resemblance was profound.

“I’d almost forgotten about Rhodry’s daughter. She certainly hasn’t
inherited her looks from her mother’s side, has she?”

“None, but Maelwaedd blood tends to be strong, and Olwen, poor
lass, was one of those blond and bland sorts. Rhodry’s bastard
might have a very important role to play in what lies ahead, so I
keep her with me at all times—to supervise her upbringing, of
course.” For all her talk of political purposes, she kissed the top of
the child’s head with a genuine fondness, then motioned to the
nursemaid. “Now let Mistress Tevylla take you away and give you
some bread and milk. It’s almost time for bed.”

Although Rhodda whined, begged, and finally howled, Lovyan held
firm and scooped her up bodily to give her to her nurse, who was
hovering by the chamber door. Nevyn hadn’t truly noticed her
before, but he saw now that she was a striking woman of about
thirty, with dark hair, dark eyes, and almost severely regular
features. Once she and her small charge were gone, Nevyn asked
about her.

“Tevva?” Lovyan said. “A charming woman, and with a will of steel,
which she needs around Rhodda, I assure you. She’s a widow,
actually, with a son of her own, who’s—oh ye gods, I don’t
remember his age, but old enough for Cullyn to be training him for
the warband. Her man was a blacksmith down in my town, but he
died suddenly of a fever two winters ago. Since she had no kin, the
priests recommended her to my charity, and I needed a woman for
Rhodda. That child is a worse handful than even her father was.”
She sighed, and since they were alone, she could be honest. “I
suppose it’s the Elven blood in their veins.”

“I’d say so, for all that Rhodda doesn’t have much of it.”

“A full quarter, let us not forget. Don’t fall for your own lies about a
trace of Elven blood in the Maelwaedds.”

“Well, it’s not a lie, because there is one, but of course it doesn’t
apply here. I take it you plan to make the child a good marriage
someday?”

“An influential marriage, certainly, and I plan to teach her how to
make any marriage suit her own purposes. If she can learn to
channel all that willfulness, she’ll be a woman to reckon with in
Eldidd, illegitimate or not.”

Although Nevyn agreed with vague words rather than burden her
further, he privately wondered if the child could ever be tamed and
forced into the narrow mold of a noble-born woman. Sooner or
later, her wild blood was going to show.

Before he left Dun Bruddlyn, Nevyn made a point of scrying out
Rhodry and, when he found him well, telling Lovyan so. As he rode
out, leading his pack mule behind him, he felt a dread that was as
much logic as it was dweomer warning. The summer before, he
and those others who studied the dweomer of light had won a
series of victories over those who followed the dweomer of
darkness. They had not only disrupted an elaborate plot of the dark
masters but had also ruined one of their main sources of income,
the importing of opium and various poisons into the kingdom. The
dark ones would want revenge; they always did, and he eminded
himself to stay on guard in his travels. Of course, it was likely that
they’d scheme for years, trying to lay a plan so clever and
convoluted that it would be undetectable. It was likely, but at same
time, the dweomer warnings came to him in a coldness down his
back. Since the dark masters were so threatened, they would
doubtless strike back as soon as they could. The only question
was how.

And yet, other, more mundane matters demanded his attention as
well. The gwerbretrhyn was too rich, too desirable, to stay peaceful
if the line of succession should be broken. As much as he hated
involving himself in the schemings and feudings of noble clans,
Nevyn knew that his duty to Rhodry’s dweomer-touched Wyrd also
imposed on him a duty to Rhodry’s rhan and to his innocent
subjects, who preferred peace to war, unlike noble-born men like
Talidd. He would fight with every weapon he had to keep Aberwyn
safe. For all that Lovyan was skeptical about his political skills (and
he knew full well that she was), he was better armed for this fight
than any man in the kingdom, right down to the wisest of the high
king’s councillors. Oh, I learned a trick or two that time, he thought
to himself, and our Rhodry was right in the middle of that little
mess, for all that he was a humble rider then, and an outlawed
man! Although it had been well over a hundred years ago now, he
knew what it was to battle for the throne of not merely a gwerbret,
but a king.



Part One
Deverry and Pyrdon,
833-845

When Dilly Blind went to the river, To see what he could see, He
found the King of Cerrmor A-washing his own laundry . . .

—Old Eldidd folk song

ONE

The Year 833. Slwmar II, king in Dun Deverry, received a bad
wound in battle. The second son of Glyn II, king in Cerrmor, died
stillborn. We took these as bad omens. Only later would we realize
that Bel in His wisdom was preparing peace for his people . . .

The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn

The flies were the worst thing. It was bad enough to be dying, but
to have the flies so thick was an unjust indignity. They clustered
buzzing round the wound and tried to drink the blood. It hurt too
much to try to brush them away. The wound was on his right side,
just below the armpit, and deep. If someone could have stitched it
for him, Maddyn supposed, he might have lived, but since he was
all alone in the wild hills, he was going to die. He saw no reason to
lie to himself about it: he was bleeding to death. He clutched the
saddle-peak with his left hand and kept his right arm raised,
because the wound blazed like fire if he let his arm touch it. The
blood kept oozing through his shattered mail, and the big shiny
blue-black flies kept coming. Every now and then, a fly bit his
horse, which was too exhausted to do more than stamp in protest.

Maddyn was the last rider in his warband left alive. Since when he
died, the enemy victory would be complete, it seemed honorable
to try to postpone their victory for a while; it seemed important then,
as he rode slowly through the golden autumn haze, to cheat them
of their victory for twenty minutes more. Ahead, about a mile away,
was a lake, the surface rippled gold and shining in the sunset.
Along the edge stood white birches, rippling in the rising wind. He
wanted water. Next to the flies, being thirsty was the worst thing, his
mouth so dry that he could barely breathe. His horse ambled
steadily for the lake. It wouldn’t matter, his dying, if only he could
drink first.

The lake was coming closer. He could see the rushes, dark rokes
against bright water, and a white heron, standing one-legged at the
edge. Then something went wrong with the sun. It wasn’t setting
straight down, but swinging from side to side, like a lantern held in
someone’s hand as they walked. The sky was dark as night, but the
sun kept swinging back and forth, a lantern in the night, back and
forth, wider swings now, up up high up all the way to noon about
him all the way above him and blazing. Then there was darkness,
the smell of crushed grass, the flies buzzing and the thirst. Then
only darkness.

A lantern was burning in the darkness. At first, Maddyn thought it
was the sun, but this light was too small, too steady. An old man’s
face leaned over him. He had a thick mane of white hair and cold
blue eyes.

“Ricyn.” His voice was low but urgent. “Ricco, look at me.”

Although Maddyn had never heard that particular name before, he
knew somehow that it was his, and he tried to answer to it. His lips
were too dry to move. The old man held a golden cup of water to
his lips and helped him drink. The water was sweet and cold. I
won’t die thirsty after all, Maddyn thought. Then the darkness came
again.

The next time that he woke, he realized that he wasn’t going to die.
For a long time, he lay perfectly still and wondered at it: he wasn’t
going to die. Slowly he looked around him, for the first time
wondering where he was, and realized that he was lying naked
between soft wool blankets on a pile of straw. Firelight danced
over the walls of an enormous stone room. Although his wound still
hurt, it was nicely bound with linen bandages. When he turned his
head, he saw the old man sitting at a rough wooden table by the
stone hearth and reading in a leather-bound book. The old man
glanced up and smiled at him.

“Thirsty, lad?”

“I am, good sir.”

The old man dipped water from a wooden barrel into the golden
cup, then knelt down and helped him drink.

“My horse?” Maddyn said.

“He’s safe and at his hay.” The old man laid a hand on Maddyn’s
forehead. “Fever’s broken. Good.”

Maddyn just managed to smile before he fell asleep. This time, he
dreamt of his last battle so vividly that it seemed he could smell the
dust and the horse sweat. His warband drew up on the crest of the
hill, and there were Tieryn Devyr and his men waiting across the
road—over a hundred to their thirty-seven, but they were going to
make the hopeless downhill charge anyway. Maddyn knew it by the
way Lord Brynoic laughed like a madman, lounging back in his
saddle. There was naught they could do but die; they were trapped
and they had naught left to live for. Even though he felt like a fool
for doing it, Maddyn started thinking about his mother. In his mind,
he could see her clearly, standing in the doorway of their house
and holding out her arms to him. Then the horn blew for the charge,
and he could only think of riding. Down the hill, on and on, with
Devyr’s men wheeling to face them—the clash came with a shriek
from both sides. In his dream Maddyn relived every parry and cut,
choked again on the rising dust, and woke with a cry when the
sword bit deep into his side.

“Here, lad.” The old man was right beside him. “All’s well now.”

“Can I have some water?”

“All you want.”

After Maddyn gulped down six cupfuls, the old man brought him
bread and milk in a wooden bowl. Since his hands were shaking
too badly to hold a spoon, the old man fed him too, a spoonful at a
time. The best feast in the gwerbret of Cantrae’s hall had never
tasted as good as that meal did.

“My thanks,” Maddyn said. “Truly, I owe you the humblest thanks I
can give for saving my life.”

“Saving lives is somewhat of a habit of mine. I’m an herbman.”

“And wasn’t that the luck of my life, then!”

“Luck?” The old fellow smiled in a sly sort of way. “Well, truly, it
may have been, at that. My name is Nevyn, by the by, and that’s not
a jest; it truly is my name. I’m somewhat of a hermit, and this is my
home.”

“My name is Maddyn, and I rode for Lord Brynoic. Here, do you
realize that I’m an outlawed man? By every black-hearted demon in
the hells, you should have let me bleed to death where I fell.”

“Oh, I heard me of Brynoic’s exile, sure enough, but the
pronouncements of tieryns and suchlike mean little to me. Cursed
if I’ll let a man die when I can save him just because his lord
overstepped himself at court.”

With a sigh, Maddyn turned his head away. Nearby was his shield,
leaning against the wall, and a tidy stack of his other gear, including
his small ballad harp, wrapped safe in its leather sack. The sight of
the fox device stamped on everything he owned made tears burn
in Maddyn’s eyes. His whole warband, all his friends, men he’d
ridden with for eight years now—all dead, because Lord Brynoic
had coveted another man’s land and failed in his gamble to get it.

“Did the tieryn bury our dead?” he whispered.

“He did. I found the battlefield some days after I brought you
home. From the sight of the slaughter, I’m surprised that even one
man escaped.”

“I ran like a coward. I made the charge and got my wound. I knew I
was dying, then, and I just wanted to die alone, somewhere quiet,
like. Ah ye gods, I never dreamt that anyone would save me!”

“No doubt it was your Wyrd to live.”

“It was a harsh Wyrd, then. I’m still an outlawed man. I threw away
the last bit of honor I had when I didn’t die with my lord and my
band.”

Nevyn made a soothing remark, but Maddyn barely heard him. For
all that his shame bit at him, deep in his heart he knew he was glad
to be alive, and that very gladness was another shame.

It was two days before Maddyn could sit up, and then only by
propping himself against the wall and fighting with his swimming
head. As soon as he was a bit stronger, he began wondering about
the strange room he was in. From the smell of damp in the air and
the lack of windows, he seemed to be underground, but the fire in
the enormous hearth drew cleanly. The room was the right size for
that massive hearth too, a full fifty feet across, and the ceiling was
lost above him in shadows. All along the wall by his bed was a
carved bas-relief, about ten feet above the floor, that must have at
one time run around the entire room. Now the severely geometric
pattern of triangles and circles broke off abruptly, as if it had been
defaced. Finally, on the day when he was strong enough to feed
himself for the first time, it occurred to him to ask Nevyn where they
were.

“Inside Brin Toraedic. The entire hill is riddled with chambers and
tunnels.”

Maddyn almost dropped his spoon into his lap. Since Lord
Brynoic’s dun was only about five miles away, he’d seen the hill
many a time and heard all the tales about it too, how it was haunted,
plagued by demons and spirits, who sent blue lights dancing
through the night and strange howls whistling through the day. It
certainly looked peculiar enough to be haunted, rising straight out
of an otherwise flat meadow, like some old giant long ago turned to
stone and overgrown with grass.

“Now, now.” Nevyn gave him a grin. “I’m real flesh and blood, not a
prince of demons or suchlike.”

Maddyn tried to return the smile and failed.

“I like to be left alone, lad,” Nevyn went on. “So what better place
could I find to live than a place where everyone else is afraid to
go?”

“Well, true enough, I suppose. But, then, there aren’t any spirits
here after all?”

“Oh, there’s lots, but they go their way and I go mine. Plenty of
room for us all.”

When Maddyn realized that the old man was serious, his hands
shook so hard that he had to lay down his bowl and spoon.

“I couldn’t lie to you,” Nevyn said in a perfectly mild tone of voice.
“You’ll have to shelter with us this winter, because you won’t be fit
to ride before the snows come, but these spirits are a harmless
sort. All that talk about demons is simple exaggeration. The folk
around here are starved for a bit of color in their lives.”

“Are they now? Uh, here, good sir, just how long have I been here,
anyway?”

“Oh, a fortnight. You lay in a fever for a wretchedly long time. The
wound went septic. When I found you, there were flies all over it.”

Maddyn picked up his spoon and grimly went on eating. The
sooner he got the strength to leave this spirit-plagued place, the
better.

As the wound healed, Maddyn began getting out of bed for longer
and longer periods. Although Nevyn had thrown away his blood-
soaked clothes, Maddyn had a spare shirt in his saddlebags, and
the old man found him a pair of brigga that fit well enough. One of
the first things he did was unwrap his ballad harp and make sure
that it was unharmed. With his right arm so weak, he couldn’t tune
it, but he ran his fingers over the sour, lax strings to make sure they
still sounded.

“I’m surprised that Lord Brynoic would risk a bard in battle,” Nevyn
remarked.

“I’m not much of a bard, truly, more a gerthddyn who can fight,
know a good many songs and suchlike, but I never studied the
triads and the rest of the true bard lore.”

“And why not?”

“Well, my father was a rider in our lord’s warband. When he was
killed, I was but thirteen, and Lord Brynoic offered me a place in
the troop. I took it to avenge my father’s death, and then, well, there
never was a chance to study after that, since I’d given my lord my
pledge and all.”

“And do you regret it?”

“I’ve never let myself feel regret. Only grief lies that way, good sir.”

Once he was strong enough, Maddyn began exploring the old
man’s strange home, a small complex of caves and tunnels.
Beside the main living quarters, there was another stone room that
the herbman had turned into a stable for his horse, Maddyn’s, and
a fine brown mule. The side of that room crumbled away, leading
back to a natural cave, where a small spring welled up, then
drained away down the side of the hill. Just outside the stable door
was the gully that had given Brin Toraedic its name of “broken hill,”
a long, straight cleft slicing across the summit. The first time he
went outside, he found the air cold in spite of the bright sun, and
the chill worked in his wound and tormented him. He hurried inside
and decided to take Nevyn’s word for it that winter was well on its
way.

Since the herbman had plenty of coin as well as these elaborate
living quarters, Maddyn began to wonder if he were an eccentric
nobleman who’d simply fled from the civil wars raging across the
kingdom. He was far too grateful to ask such an embarrassing
question, but scattered across the kingdom were plenty of the
noble-born who weaseled any way they could to get out of their
obligations to the various gwerbrets claiming to be king of all
Deverry. Nevyn had a markedly courtly way about him, gracious at
times, brusque at others, as if he were used to being obeyed
without question. What’s more, he could read and write, an
accomplishment rare for the simple herbman he claimed to be.
Maddyn began to find the old man fascinating.

Once every few days, Nevyn took his horse and mule and rode
down to the nearby village, where he would buy fresh food and
pack in a mule load of winter supplies: hay and grain for the stock,
or cheeses, sausage, dried fruit, and suchlike for the pair of them.
While he was gone, Maddyn would do some share of the work
around the caves, then sleep off his exertion. On a gray morning
with a sharp wind, Nevyn mentioned that he’d be gone longer than
usual, because one of the village women needed his healing
herbs.

After the old man left, Maddyn swept the stable refuse into the
cully, then went back for a rest before he raked it out onto the
hillside. He laid a bit more wood on the hearth, then sat down close
by to drive the chill from his wound.

For the first time since the battle, he felt too strong to sleep, and
his neglected harp called him reproachfully. When he took her out
of her leather bag, the lax strings sighed at him. On a harp that
size, there were only thirty-six strings, but in his weakened state,
tuning her seemed to take him forever. He struck out the main note
from his steel tuning bar, then worked over the strings, adjusting
the tiny ivory pegs while he sang out the intervals, until sweat ran
down his face. This sign of weakness only drove him on until at last
the harp was in reasonable tune, but he had to rest for a few
minutes before he could play it. He ran a few trills, struck a few
chords, and the music seemed to give him a small bit of his
strength back as it echoed through the huge stone-walled room.
The very size of the place added an eerie overtone to every note
he played.

Suddenly, at his shoulder, he felt the White Lady, his agwen, she
who came to every bard who had true song in him. As she
gathered, he felt the familiar chill down his back, the stirring of hair
at the nape of his neck. For all that he called himself a gerthddyn,
her presence and the inspiration she gave him were signs that the
kingdom had lost a true bard when Maddyn had pledged for a rider.
Although his voice was weak and stiff that morning, he sang for his
agwen, a long ballad, bits of lyric, whatever came to his mind, and
the music soothed his wound as well as a healing poultice.

All at once, he knew that he wasn’t alone. When he looked up,
expecting to see Nevyn in the doorway, no one was indeed there.
When he glanced around, he saw nothing but fire-thrown shadows.
Yet every time he struck a chord, he felt an audience listening to
him. The hair on the back of his neck pricked like a cat’s when he
remembered Nevyn’s talk of spirits. You’re daft, he told himself
sharply; there’s naught here. But he had performed too many times
to believe himself. He knew the intangible difference between
singing to empty air and playing to an attentive hall. When he sang
two verses of a ballad, he felt them, whoever they were, leaning
forward to catch every word. When he stopped and set the harp
down, he sensed their disappointment.

“Well, here now. You can’t be such bad sorts if you like a good
song.”

He thought he heard someone giggle behind him, but when he
turned, there was nothing there but the wall. He got up and walked
slowly and cautiously around the room, looked into every corner
and crack—and saw nothing. Just as he sat down again someone
else giggled—this time he heard it plainly—like a tiny child who’s
just played a successful prank. Maddyn grabbed his harp only in
the somewhat fuddled thought of keeping it safe, but when he felt
his invisible audience crowd round him in anticipation, he was too
much of a bard to turn down any listeners, even incorporeal ones.
When he struck the strings, he was sure he heard them give a little
sigh of pleasure. Just because it was the first thing that came to
mind, he sang through the fifty chained stanzas that told of King
Bran’s sea voyage to Deverry, and of the magical mist that swept
him and his fleet away at the end. By the time that the enchanted
ships were safe in the long-lost, mysterious harbor in the far north,
Maddyn was exhausted.

“My apologies, but I’ve got to stop now.”

A sigh sounded in regret. Someone touched his hair with a gentle
stroke, like a pat on a dog; someone plucked at his sleeve with
skinny-feeling fingers. The fire blazed up on the hearth; a draft
swirled around him in preternaturally cold air. Maddyn shuddered
and stood up, but little hands grabbed his brigga leg. The harp
strings sounded in a random run down as someone tried them for
itself. The very shadows came alive, eddying and swirling in every
corner. Fingers were touching his face, stroking his arm, pinching
his clothes, pulling his hair, while the harp strings rang and
strummed in an ugly belling.

“Stop that, all of you!” Nevyn yelled from the door. “That’s a
wretched discourteous way to treat our guest!”

The little fingers disappeared. The fire fell low, as if in
embarrassment. Maddyn felt like weeping in relief as the herbman
strode in, carrying a pair of saddlebags.

“Truly, it was a nasty way to behave,” Nevyn went on, addressing
the seemingly empty air. “If you do that again, then Maddyn won’t
ever play his harp for you.”

The room went empty of presences. Nevyn tossed the saddlebags
down on the table and gave Maddyn a grin. With shaking hands,
Maddyn set his harp down and wiped the sweat from his face on
his sleeve.

“I should have warned you about that. They love music. My
aplogies, lad.”

Maddyn tried to speak, failed, and sat down heavily on the bench.
Behind him, a harp string twanged. Nevyn scowled at the air beside
it.

“I said stop it!”

A little puff of wind swept away.

“Aren’t you going to ask me a few questions, Maddyn lad?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m afraid to.”

The old man laughed under his breath.

“Well, I’ll answer anyway, question or no. Those were what men
call the Wildfolk. They’re like ill-trained children or puppies, all
curiosity, no sense or manners. Unfortunately, they can hurt us
mortal folk without even meaning to do so.”

“I gathered that, sure enough.” As he looked at his benefactor,
Maddyn realized a truth he’d been avoiding for days now. “Sir, you
must have dweomer.”

“I do. How does that strike you?”

“Like a blow. I never thought there was any such thing outside of
my own ballads and tales.”

“Most men would consider me a bard’s fancy, truly, but my craft is
real enough.”

Maddyn stared, wondering how Nevyn could look so cursed
ordinary, until the old man turned away with good-humored laugh
and began rummaging in his saddlebags.

“I brought you a bit of roast meat for your supper, lad. You need it
to make back the blood you lost, and the villager I visited had
some to spare to pay for my herbs.”

“My thanks. Uh, when do you think I’ll be well enough to ride out?”

“Oho! The spirits have you on the run, do they?”

“Well, not to be ungrateful or suchlike, good sir.” Maddyn felt
himself blush. “But I . . . uh . . . well . . . ”

Nevyn laughed again.

‘No need to be ashamed, lad. Now as to the wound, it’ll be a good
while yet before you’re fit. You rode right up to the gates of the
Otnerlands, and it always takes a man a long time to ride back
again.”

From that day on, the Wildfolk grew bolder around Maddyn, the
way that hounds will slink out from under the table when they that
their master’s guest is fond of dogs. Every time Maddyn picked up
his harp, he was aware of their presence—a liveliness in the room,
a small scuffle of half-heard noise, a light touch on his arm or hair,
a breath of wind as something flew by. Whenever they pinched or
mobbed him, he would simply threaten to stop singing, a threat that
always made them behave themselves. Once, when he was
struggling to light a fire with damp tinder, he felt them gather
beside him. As he struck a spark from his steel, the Wildfolk blew it
into a proper flame. When he thanked them automatically, he
realized that he was beginning to take spirits for granted. As for
Nevyn himself, although Maddyn studied the old man for traces of
strange powers and stranger lore, he never saw any, except, of
course, that spirits obeyed him.

Maddyn also spent a lot of time thinking over his future. Since he
was a member of an outlawed warband, he would hang if Tieryn
Devyr ever got his hands on him. His one chance at an honorable
life was slim indeed. If he rode down to Cantrae without the tieryn
catching him, and then threw himself upon the gwerbret’s mercy,
he might be pardoned simply because he was something of a bard
and thus under special protection in the laws. Unfortunately, the
pardon was unlikely, because it would depend on his liege’s whim,
and Gwerbret Tibryn of the Boar was a harsh man. His clan, the
Boars of the North, was related to the southern Boars of Muir, who
had wheedled the gwerbretrhyn out of the king in Dun Deverry
some fifty years before. Between them, the conjoint Boar clans
ruled a vast stretch of the northern kingdom and were said to be
the real power behind a puppet king in the Holy City. It was unlikely
that Tibryn would bother to show mercy to a half-trained bard when
that mercy would make one of his loyal tieryns grumble. Maddyn
decided that since he and the spirits had worked out their
accommodation, he would leave the gwerbret’s mercy alone and
stay in Brin Toraedic until spring.

The next time Nevyn rode to the village, Maddyn decided to ride a
ways with him to exercise both himself and his horse. The day was
clear and cold, with the smell of snow in the air and a rimy frost
lying on the brown stubbled fields. When he realized that it was
nearly Samaen, Maddyn was shocked at the swift flowing of time
outside the hill, which seemed to have a different flow of its own.
Finally they came to the village, a handful of round, thatched
houses scattered among white birches along the banks of a
stream.

“I’d best wait for you by the road,” Maddyn said. “One of the
tieryn’s men might ride into the village for some reason.”

“I don’t want you sitting out in this cold. I’ll take you over to a farm
near here. These people are friends of mine, and they’ll shelter
you without awkward questions.”

They followed a lane across brown pastureland until they came to
the farmstead, a scatter of round buildings inside a circular,
packed-earth wall. Out in back of the big house was a cow barn,
storage sheds, and a pen for gray and white goats. In the muddy
yard, chickens pecked round the front door of the house. Shooing
the hens away, a stout man with graying hair came out to greet
them.

“Morrow, my lord. What can I do for you this morning?

“Oh, just keep a friend of mine warm, good Bannyc. He’s been
very ill, as I’m sure his white face is telling you, and he needs to
rest while I’m in the village.”

“We can spare him room at the hearth. Ye gods, lad, you’re pale as
the hoarfrost, truly.”

Bannyc ushered Maddyn into the wedge-shaped main room, which
served as kitchen and hall both. In front of a big hearth, where logs
blazed in a most welcome way, stood two tables and three high-
back benches, a prosperous amount of furniture for those parts.
Clean straw covered the floor, and the walls were freshly
whitewashed. From the ceiling hung strings of onions and garlic,
nets of drying turnips and apples, and a couple of enormous hams.
On the hearthstone a young woman was sitting cross-legged and
mending a pair of brigga.

“Who’s this, Da?” she said.

“A friend of Nevyn’s.”

Hastily she scrambled up and dropped Maddyn a curtsy. She was
very pretty, with raven-black hair and dark, calm eyes. Maddyn
bowed to her in return.

“You’ll forgive me for imposing on you,” Maddyn said. “I haven’t
been well, and I need a bit of a rest.”

“Any friend of Nevyn’s is always welcome here,” she said. “Sit
down, and I’ll get you some ale.”

Maddyn took off his cloak, then sat down on the hearthstone as
close to the fire as he could get without singeing his shirt.
Announcing that he had to get back to the cows, Bannyc strolled
back outside. The woman handed Maddyn a tankard of dark ale,
then sat down near him and picked up her mending again.

“My thanks.” Maddyn saluted her with the ale. “My name’s Maddyn
of . . . uh, well, just Maddyn will do.”

“Mine’s Belyan. Have you known Nevyn long?”

“Oh, not truly.”

Belyan gave him an oddly awestruck smile and began sewing
Maddyn sipped his ale and watched her slender fingers work deftly
on the rough wool of a pair of brigga, Bannyc’s, by the large size of
them. He was surprised at how good it felt to be sitting warm, and
alive in the presence of a pretty woman. Every now and then,
Belyan hesitantly looked his way, as if she were trying to think of
something to say.

“Well, my lord,” she said at last. “Will you, be staying long with our
Nevyn?’

“I don’t truly know, but here, what makes you, call me lord? I’m as
common-born as you are.”

“Well—but a friend of Nevyn’s.”

At that Maddyn realized that she knew perfectly well that the old
man was dweomer.

“Now here, what do you think I am?” Maddyn had the uneasy
feeling that it was very dangerous to pretend to dweomer you didn’t
have, “I’m only a rider without a warband. Nevyn was good enough
to save my life when he found me wounded, that’s all. But here,
don’t tell anyone about me, will you? I’m an outlawed man.”

“I’ll forget your name the minute you ride on.”

‘My humble thanks, and my apologies. I don’t even deserve to be
drinking your ale.”

“Oh, hold, your tongue! What do I care about these rotten wars?”

When, he looked at her, he found her angry, her mouth set hard in
a bitter twist.

“I don’t care the fart of a two-copper piglet,” she went on. “All it’s
ever brought to me and mine is trouble. They take our horses and
raise our taxes and ride through our grain, and all in the name of
glory and the one true king, or so they call him, when everyone with
wits in his head knows there’s two kings now, and why should I
care, truly, as long as they don’t both come here a-bothering us. If
you’re one man who won’t die in this war, then, I say good for you.”

“Ye gods. Well, truly, I never thought of it that way before.”

“No doubt, since you were a rider once.”

“Here, I’m not exactly a deserter or suchlike.”

She merely shrugged and went back to her sewing. Maddyn
wondered why a woman her age, twenty-two or so, was living in her
father’s house. Had she lost a betrothed in the wars? The question
was answered for him in a moment when two small lads, about six
and four, came running into the room and calling her Mam. They
were fighting over a copper they’d found in the road and come to
her to settle it. Belyan gave them each a kiss and told hem they’d
have to give the copper to their gran, then sent them back outside.

“So you’re married, are you?” Maddyn said.

“I was once. Their father drowned in the river two winters ago. He
was setting a fish trap, but the ice turned out to be too thin.”

“That aches my heart, truly. So you came back to your father?”

“I did. Da needed a woman around the house, and he’s good to my
lads. That’s what matters to me.”

“Then it gladdens my heart to hear that you’re happy.”

“Happy?” She thought for a moment. “Oh, I don’t think much of
things like happiness, just as long as the lads are well.”

Maddyn could feel her loneliness, lying just under her faint,
mocking smile. His body began to wonder about her, a flicker of
sexual warmth, another sign that life was coming back to him. She
looked at him steadily, her dark eyes patient, self-contained,
almost unreadable.

“And what will you do now?” she said. “Ride on before the snows
come?”

“Nevyn doesn’t think I’ll be fit by then, but sooner or later I have to
go. It’ll mean my life if I stay. They hang outlawed men.”

“So they do.”

Belyan considered him for a moment more, then got up briskly, as
if she’d come to some decision, and strode out of the room
through a blanket-hung door in one of the wickerwork walls. He was
just finishing his tankard when she returned, carrying a shirt, which
she tossed into his lap when she sat back down.

“That was my husband’s,” she said. “It’s too small for Da, and it’ll
rot before the lads grow to fit it Take it. You need a shirt that
doesn’t have foxes embroidered all over it.”

“Ye gods! I forgot about that. No wonder you thought I was a
deserter, then. Well, my humble thanks.”

He smoothed it out, studying with admiration the sleeves, stiff finely
embroidered interlace and spirals, and at the yokes, bands. It had
probably been her husband’s wedding shirt, because it was
unlikely that her man had owned two pieces of fancy clothing, but
still, it was a good bit safer for him to wear than one with his dead
lord’s blazon. He took off his old shirt and gave it to her.

“Do you want this for the cloth? You can mend the lads’ tunics out
of it.”

“So I can. My thanks.”

She was looking at the scar along his side, a thick clot of tissue in
his armpit, a thinner gash along his ribs, Hurriedly he pulled the new
shirt over his head and smoothed it down.

“It fits well enough. You’re generous to a dishonored man.”

“Better than letting it rot. I put a lot of fancy work into that.”

“Do you miss your man still?”

“At times.” She paused, considering for a few moments. “I do, at
that. He was a good man. He didn’t beat me, and we always had
enough to eat. When he had the leisure, he’d whittle little horses
and wagons for the lads, and he made sure I had a new dress
every spring.”

It came to that for her, he realized, not the glories of love and the
tempests of passion that the bard songs celebrated for noble
audiences, He’d met plenty of women like Belyan, farm women, all
of them, whose real life ran apart from their men in a self-contained
earthiness of their work and their children. Since their work counted
as much as their men’s toward feeding and sheltering themselves
and their kin, it gave them a secure place of their own, unlike the
wives of the noble lords, who existed at their husbands’ whims. Yet
Belyan was lonely; at times she missed her man. Maddyn was
aware of his body, and the wondering was growing stronger. When
she smiled at him, he smiled in return.

The door banged open, and, shouting and laughing, the two lads
ushered in Nevyn. Although he joked easily with the boys, the old
man turned grim when he reached Maddyn.

“You were right to stay out here, lad. I like that new shirt you’re
wearing,”

Belyan automatically began rolling the old one up, hiding the fox-
blazoned yokes inside the roll.

“Tieryn Devyr is up at Brynoic’s dun,” Nevyn went on. “He’s going
to assign the lands to his son, Romyl, and give the lad part of his
warband to hold them. That means men who know you will be
riding the roads around here. I think we’ll just go home the back
way.”

For several days after, Maddyn debated the risk of riding on his
own, then finally went down to see Belyan by a roundabout way.
When he led the horse into the farmstead, it seemed deserted.
The wooden wagon was gone, and not even a dog ran out to bark
at him. As he stood there, puzzling, Belyan came walking out of the
barn with a wooden bucket in one hand. Maddyn liked her firm but
supple stride.

“Da’s taken the lads down to market,” she said. “We had extra
cheeses to sell.”

“Will they be gone long?”

“Till sunset, most like. I was hoping you’d ride our way today.”

Maddyn took his horse to the barn and tied him up in a stall next to
one of the cows, where he’d be out of the wind and, more
importantly, out of sight of the road. When he went into the house,
he found Belyan putting more wood in the hearth. She wiped her
hands on her skirts, then glanced at him with a small, secretive
smile.

“It’s cold in my bedchamber, Maddo. Come sit down by the fire.”

They sat down together in the soft clean straw by the hearth. When
he touched her hair with a shy stroke, she laid impatient hands on
his shoulders. When he kissed her, she slipped her hands behind
his neck and pulled him down to her as smoothly as if she were
gathering in a sheaf of wheat.

The winter was slow in coming that year. There was one flurry of
snow, then only the cold under a clear sky, day after day of aching
frost and wind. Although the pale sun managed to melt the first
snowfall, rime lay cold and glittering on the brown fields and in the
ditches along the roads. Maddyn spent the days out of sight in Brin
Toraedic, because Lord Romyl’s men were often out prowling the
roads, riding back and forth to the village to exercise their horses
and to get themselves out of the dun. Maddyn would sleep late,
then practice his harp by the hour with the Wildfolk for an audience.
Sometimes Nevyn would sit and listen, or even make a judicious
comment about his singing or the song itself, but the old man
spent much of his day deep within the broken hill. Maddyn never
got up the nerve to ask him what he did there.

One afternoon when Nevyn was gone, Maddyn remembered a
song about Dilly Blind, the trickiest Wildfolk of them all. Since it
was a children’s song, he hadn’t heard it in years, but he ran
through it several times and made up fresh verses when he
couldn’t remember the old. The Wildfolk clustered close and
listened enraptured. When he finally finished with it, for the briefest
of moments he thought he saw or perhaps did indeed see them,
little faces, little eyes, peering up at him. Then, suddenly, they were
gone. When Nevyn returned later, Maddyn mentioned his vision—if
such it was—to the old man, who looked honestly startled.

“If you do start seeing them, lad, for the sake of every god, don’t
go telling people about it. You’ll be mocked within a bare thread of
your life.”

“Oh, I know that, sure enough. I’m just puzzled. I never had so
much as a touch of the second sight before.”

‘Truly? That’s odd, because bards so often do have the sight. But
anyway, lad, you’re doubtless picking it up just from being here with
us. Suppose you laid your sword down close to the fire in the
hearth. In time, the blade would grow hot, even though it wasn’t in
the fire itself. Being in a center of dweomer power can do that to a
man with a sensitive mind.”

With a little shudder Maddyn looked around the towering stone
chamber. A center of power? he thought; truly, you can feel it
sometimes.

“Well,” Maddyn said at last. “It was a strange chance that brought
me here.”

“Perhaps. But naught happens to a dweomerman by chance,
especially not in these cursed and troubled times.”

“I take it the wars ache your heart.”

“Of course they do, dolt! If you had any sense, they’d ache yours.”

“Well, good sir, I’ve never known anything but war. Sometimes I
wonder if the days of the old kingdom are like the tales in some of
my songs—splendid to hear, but never true.”

“Oh, they were real enough. There was a time when a man could
ride the roads in peace, and the farmers gather in their crops in
safety, and a man have a son and feel sure that he’d live to see the
lad live to be grown and married. Good days, they were, and I pray
constantly that they’ll come again.”

Maddyn felt a sudden longing to know that kind of life. Before, he’d
wanted battle glory and honor, taken it for granted that there would
always be wars to provide them, but all at once he wondered if
glory were the great prize he’d always believed it to be. Later, when
he went out to walk on the top of the hill, he found that the snow
had been falling all morning. For miles around, the world was soft
and white under a pearly gray sky, the trees etched against the
horizon, the distant village snug under a breath of smoke from its
chimneys. He’d seen views like it a hundred times and thought
nothing of them, but now it was beautiful, so beautiful that he
wondered if he’d ever really looked at anything before he’d ridden
up to the gates of the Otherlands.

At night, whenever the weather allowed, Maddyn rode down to see
Belyan. At first he was afraid that Bannyc would resent this outlaw
who’d ridden in and taken his daughter, but the old man regarded
him with a certain pleasant indifference. Her sons were a different
matter. The younger found him a nuisance, and the elder frankly
hated him. Maddyn took to arriving late at the farm, when he could
be sure they were asleep, because Belyan made it clear that the
lads came first in her heart—fair enough, he thought, since they
both knew he’d be riding on in the spring. Yet whenever he held her
in his arms, the spring seemed very far away.

Once the snows came in force, it was hard to ride down to her bed
as often as Maddyn wanted. One night, after a frustrating week of
being snowbound in the hill, he left early and pushed his horse
hard through the heavy drifts. He stabled his horse, then climbed in
through Belyan’s chamber window, pushing the oiled hides aside
and cursing while she laughed at him. Although she had a
freestanding clay stove in the chamber, it was still bitter cold. He
threw off his cloak, pulled off his boots, then got into bed before
undressing the rest of the way.

“Your chamber’s as cold as the blasted roads!”

“Then come over to my side of the bed. It’s nice and warm.”

When he took her in his arms, she turned to him greedily with a
simple, direct passion that still took him by surprise. She didn’t
know how to be coy and flirtatious like the other women he’d had.
When would she have had the time to learn, he supposed, and it
didn’t bother him one whit. Later, as he lay drowsing between sleep
and waking, he found himself considering staying in the spring.
Bannyc would be glad to have an extra man to help work the farm;
Bell would be glad to have him in her bed every night; the lads
could gradually be won over. While Maddyn didn’t love her, he liked
her, and it would do well enough all round. Yet he didn’t dare stay.
For the first time, he saw clearly that he was indeed running for his
life. Any lord in Cantrae who recognized him would turn him over to
Devyr for hanging. He was going to have to ride west, ride fast and
far enough to find a lord who’d never heard of him or Lord Brynoic
and one who was desperate enough for men to take him on with no
questions asked. Most likely, he’d end up riding for one of the
enemy sides in the long wars, a Cerrmor ally or an Eldidd lord. He
kissed Belyan awake and made love to her again, simply to drown
his thoughts of the future ahead of him.

That night the snow was so bad that Maddyn risked staying till
morn. It was pleasant, sleeping with his arms around her, so
pleasant that he was tempted to risk doing it often, but when he
came out of her chamber in the morning, he found some of
Bannyc’s neighbors there, eating bread and drinking ale while they
chatted by the hearth. Although they were pleasant to him, Maddyn
had the grim experience of finding himself the undoubted focus of
four pairs of eyes and—no doubt—a good bit of future gossip. If
any of that gossip reached the wrong ears, he would be in danger.
After that, he rode only at night and left her house well before
dawn.

Yet for all his precautions the night came when Maddyn ran across
some of Romyl’s men. Just at midnight, he was picking his way
across the fields on his way back to Brin Toraedic. A cold wind
drove torn and scudding clouds across the sky, alternately
covering and sailing free of a full moon. He could see the hill close,
a jagged blackness rising out of the meadow and looming against
the sky, when he heard the jingle of bridles carrying in the clear
night air. Horses snorted; hoof beats were trotting fast down the
road. Nearby was a leafless copse, an imperfect shelter, but the
best Maddyn could find. As he guided his horse into the trees, the
branches dropped snow, scattering over his hood and cloak.
Maddyn sat as still as he could and waited, He refused to make an
obvious dash for the hill. If he were going to be caught, he didn’t
want Nevyn hanged with him.

Trotting in tight formation, six riders came down the road. When
they were directly abreast of the copse, they paused and wheeled
their horses into a ring to argue about which direction to take at the
crossroads ahead. Maddyn could clearly hear that they were more
than a bit drunk. In an almost tangible swirl of concern and
bewilderment the Wildfolk clustered around him to listen as the
argument in the road went on and on. Then Maddyn’s horse
stamped, shivering uncontrollably in the cold with a jingle of tack,
One of the riders turned in the saddle and saw him. Maddyn urged
his horse slowly forward; he would rather surrender, he realized,
than put Nevyn and possibly Belyan at risk.

“Danger,” he whispered to the Wildfolk. “Tell Nevyn.”

He felt some of them rush away, but the others crowded round, a
trembling of small lives like gusts of warmer air.

“You!” the rider called. “Come forward!”

With a sinking heart, Maddyn recognized Selyn, one of Devyr’s
men, who knew him well. With Selyn at their head, the riders trotted
over, spreading out in a semicircle to surround and trap him. Since
it was a hopeless situation, Maddyn rode out to meet them. In the
moonlight, he could just see an exaggerated surprise on Selyn’s
face.

“Maddyn! Oh, by the gods!” His voice was a frightened hiss. “It’s
long past Samaen.”

One of the others yelped sharply, like a kicked hound. The group
pulled their horses to an abrupt halt, just as Maddyn felt the
Wildfolk rushing about him in panic, lifting and trembling the edges
of his cloak and hood.

“Now, here, Maddo lad, don’t harm us. I used to be a friend of
yours. It was only my lord’s orders that ever made us lift a sword
against you. May peace be yours in the Otherlands.”

As Selyn began edging his nervous horse backward, the truth hit
Maddyn: Selyn, who thought he was dead with all the rest of
Brynoic’s warband, could only assume that he was seeing
Maddyn’s spirit. The thought made him laugh aloud. It was the
perfect thing to do; the entire squad began edging their horses
backward, but they never took their terrified eyes off Maddyn’s
face. Such profound attention was more than any bard could resist.
Maddyn tossed his head back and howled, a long eerie note,
sending his trained voice as far and high as he could. A rider
shrieked, and the sound broke the squad.

“Spirits!” Selyn screamed. “Save yourselves.”

With a giggle of pure, delighted malice, the Wildfolk threw
themselves forward among the horses. In the moonlight Maddyn
could see them: a thickening in the air like frost crystals, little faces,
little hands, fingers that began pinching every horse and rider they
could reach. The horses kicked and plunged; the riders yelled,
slapping at their mounts with their reins as they desperately tried to
turn them. When Maddyn howled a second time, the horses
lurched sideways and charged for the road at a gallop with their
riders clinging to their necks, Maddyn sat in his saddle and sobbed
with laughter until the Wildfolk returned. In a companionable crowd,
he rode back the hill, whose legend had just grown a good bit
larger. As he led his horse into the stable, Nevyn came running to
meet him.

“What’s all this about danger?”

“All over now, good sir, but it’s a pretty tale. I think I’ll make a song
about it.”

First, though, he simply told the tale to Nevyn over a tankard of
mulled ale, and the old man laughed his dry chuckle that always
sounded rusty from long disuse.

“The battlefield where your warband fell is only about five miles
from here, certainly close enough for a haunt. One thing, though, if
they ride back in the morning, they’ll see the hoofprints of your
horse.” Nevyn looked at a spot close to his right knee. “Do us a
favor, will you? Take some of the lads and go out to the field. Do
you remember the tracks Maddyn’s horse made? . . .  You do?
Splendid! Sweep those away like a good lad, but leave all the other
tracks where they are. We’ll have a good jest on those nasty men.”

Maddyn could feel that the crowd was gone, except for a tiny blue
sprite. All at once, he saw her clearly, perched on his knee and
sucking her finger while she stared up at him with alarmingly vacant
green eyes. When she smiled, she revealed a mouth full of
needle-sharp, bright blue teeth.

“Oho!” Nevyn said. “You see her, don’t you?”

“I do, at that. Will I go on seeing the Wildfolk after I leave here?”

“I’d imagine so, but I don’t truly know. I haven’t come across a
puzzle like you before, lad.”

Maddyn had the ungrateful thought that if he were a puzzle, then
Nevyn was the greatest riddle in the world.

The next afternoon, Nevyn rode down to the village to hear the
gossip and brought back the tale of Maddyn’s meeting with the
squad in its new and doubtless permanent form. Lord Romyl’s
men had foolishly ridden by Brin Toraedic in moonlight, when every
lackwit knows you should avoid the hill like poison during the full
moon. There, sure enough, they’d seen the ghosts of Lord
Brynoic’s entire warband, charging across the meadow just as they
had during the last battle. Yet in the morning, when the riders came
back to look, they found the hoofprints of only their own horses.

“ ‘And what did they think they’d find?’ the tavernman says to me,”
Nevyn said with a dry laugh. “Everyone knows that spirits don’t
leave tracks.”

“So they did come back, did they? I’m cursed glad you thought of
that.”

“Oh, it’s one thing to be spirit-plagued by moonlight, quite another
to think things over in the cold light of dawn. But they found naught
for all their looking, and now none of Lord Romyl’s men will ride
near the hill, even in daylight.”

“Isn’t that a handy thing?”

“It is, but ye gods, you warriors are a superstitious lot!”

“Oh, are we now?” Maddyn had to laugh at the old man’s
indignation. “You show me a world full of spirits, send those spirits
out to run me an errand, and then have the gall to call me
superstitious!”

Nevyn laughed for a good long time over that.

“You’re right, and I apologize, Maddyn my lad, but surely you can’t
deny that your average swordsman believes that the strangest
things will bring him luck, either good or ill.”

“True, but you just can’t know what it’s like to ride in a war. Every
time you saddle up, you know blasted well that maybe you’ll never
ride back. Who knows what makes one man fall and another live in
a battle? Once I saw a man who was a splendid fighter—oh, he
swung a sword like a god, not a man—and he rode into this
particular scrap with all the numbers on his side, and you know
what happened? His cinch broke, dumped him into the mob, and
he was kicked to death. And then you see utter idiots, with no more
swordcraft than a farmer’s lad, ride straight for the enemy and
come out without a scratch. So after a while, you start believing in
luck and omens and anything else you can cursed well turn up, just
to ease the pain of not knowing when you’ll die.”

“I can see that, truly.”

Nevyn’s good humor was gone; he looked saddened to tears as
he thought things over. Seeing him that way made Maddyn
melancholy himself, and thoughtful.

“I suppose that’s what makes us all long for dweomer leaders,”
Maddyn went on, but slowly. “You can have the best battle plan in
the world, but once the javelins are thrown and the swordplay
starts, ah by the hells, not even the gods could think clearly. So call
it superstition all you want, but you want a leader who’s got a touch
of the dweomer about him, someone who can see more than you
can, and who’s got the right luck.”

“If being lucky and clear-sighted made a man dweomer, lad, then
the world would be full of men like me.”

“Well, that’s not quite what I meant, good sir. A dweomer leader
would be different, somehow. Doubtless none exist, but we all
want to believe it. You’d love to ride for a man like that, you tell
yourself, someone the gods favor, someone you can believe in.
Even if you died for him, it’d be worth it.”

Nevyn gave him such a sharp look that Maddyn hesitated, but the
old man gestured for him to go on.

“This is incredibly interesting.”

‘Then my thanks, truly. Now, Slwmar of Dun Deverry’s a great and
generous man, but he’s not a dweomer leader. I always had
trouble believing he was the true king, frankly, even though I always
pledged him that way because my lord did. He used to walk among
us men every now and again, talking to us and calling us by name,
and it was splendid, of him, but he was just an ordinary sort of lord,
not a true king.”

“Indeed? And what should the true king look like, then?”

“Well, there should just be somewhat of the dweomer about him.
You should just be able to tell he’s the true king. I mean, he doesn’t
have to be as tall as one of the gods, or as handsome, either, but
you could look at him and know in your very soul he was meant to
rule. He’d have splendid good luck, and the gods would send
omens of the things he was going to do. By the hells, I’d follow a
man like that to the death, and most of the kingdom would, too, I’ll
wager.”

With a wild, half-mad grin, Nevyn got up and. began pacing
furiously back and forth in front of the hearth . . .

“Have I said somewhat stupid?” Maddyn said.

“What? You’ve just said the best thing I’ve beard in many a long
year, actually. Lad, you can’t know how glad I am, that I dragged
you back from the gates of the Otherlands. My thanks for making
me see what’s been under my nose all along. I’ll tell you one great
fault of the dweomer. You get so used to using it and looking in
strange places for stranger lore that you forget to use the wits the
gods gave you in the first place!”

Utterly confused, Maddyn could only stare at him as he cackled
and paced back and forth like a madman. Finally Maddyn went to
bed, but when he woke restlessly in the middle of the night, he saw
Nevyn standing by the hearth and smiling into the fire.

Over the next couple of snowbound weeks, Nevyn spent much
time brooding over the idea that Maddyn had so inadvertently
handed him, a splendid repayment for his healing. Although
complex in the details, the plan was peculiarly simple at its core
and thus possible. At the moment, things looked as if the wars
might rage until the end of time, ravaging the kingdom until there
wasn’t a man left fit to fight. After so many years of civil war, after
so many leaders slain and buried, so many loyal followers wiped
out, it seemed to men’s minds that each of the claimants had as
good a right as the next one to the throne. When it came to figuring
bloodlines and genealogies, even the priests had a hard time
telling who was most fit to be king of all Deverry. The lords,
therefore, pledged to the man who seemed to offer an immediate
advantage, and their sons changed the alliance if the advantage
changed.

But what if a man appeared who impressed his followers as the
true king, a dweomer leader, as Maddyn said, whom half the
kingdom would follow to the throne or the grave? Then at last, after
one final gruesome bloodbath, the kingdom would come to peace.
Dweomer leader, is it? Nevyn would think; give me a decent man,
and I’ll make him look dweomer soon enough. It would be
easy—disgustingly easy as he thought about it—to surround a
good-looking man with glamour, to manipulate the omens around
him, to pull a few cheap tricks just like the one that the Wildfolk had
pulled on Selyn and his friends. They would have the troops on
their knees and their lords along with them, all cheering the one
true king. He realized, too, in those nights of brooding, that he
shouldn’t have been surprised that Maddyn would bring him the
idea. In his last life, as young Ricyn down in Cerrmor, he’d been
the captain of a warband pledged to just such a dweomer leader,
Gweniver of the Wolf, whose madness and undoubted piety to the
Dark Goddess had combined to blaze her round with false glamour
like a fire.

Thinking about her and her grim fate made Nevyn wary. Did he
have the right to subject another man to the forces that had torn her
fragile mind apart? He would have to be very careful, to wait and
scheme until he found a candidate strong enough for the burden.
He wondered, too, if he would even be allowed to use dweomer
for such a purpose. He spent long hours in meditation, stripped his
soul bare and begged for aid from the Lords of Light.

In time his answer grew slowly in his mind: the kingdom needs
peace above all else, and if somewhat goes wrong, then you will
be the sacrifice. That he could accept, thinking of himself as the
servant of and the sacrifice for the king he would create.

The permission given, it was time to plan. While Maddyn was away
at Belyan’s, or sleeping his boredom away, Nevyn would talk
through the fire to the other dweomerfolk of the kingdom,
particularly Aderyn in the west and a woman who bore the honorary
name of Rommerdda in the north. Everyone was so weary of war
that they were eager to throw their dice on Nevyn’s long gamble.

“But we can’t do this alone,” Rommerdda remarked one night.
“We’ll have to win over the priests. Can we?”

“I intend to start turning the earth for this particular garden in the
spring. At the same time, we can start scouting around for the
proper prince.”

As her image danced in the firelight, Rommerdda looked skeptical.
She wore her long white hair done in two braids like a lass of the
Dawntime, and her face was even more wrinkled than his, so old,
so exhausted that Nevyn knew she would never see the end of this
work they were planning. Of all the dweomer folk in the kingdom,
only he and Aderyn had unnaturally long lives, each for their
separate reasons. There would, however, soon be another
Rommerdda to take up the task in hand.

And it was going to be a hard one: find the right man, then lay the
proper omens for his coming with the aid of the priests. Once the
kingdom lived for the day when the true king appeared, then Nevyn
could orchestrate his moves. As he brooded over the details,
Nevyn began to long for spring. The sooner he got started, the
better.




TWO

The year 834. This was the year of the first omens of the coming
king. A two-headed kid was born in a village near our temple. It
died soon after, because a kingdom with two kings cannot live. In
the sky we saw a vision of a great horse, running before a storm,
and coming from the west. Although the omen was duly recorded,
only later did we realize its import . . .

—The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn

Spring came too fast that year for Maddyn’s liking. Every morning,
he would walk up on the hill and search the sky for weather omens.
Although he would have to stay until the snows were well past, at
the same time he had to be well away before the real spring, when
the riders would be swarming on the Cantrae roads for the summer
muster. First came the rains that melted the last of the snow and
turned the world to brown muck; then the nights grew warmer until it
seemed a hardy man could sleep beside the road without freezing.
Yet he found excuses to stay until the pale grass began to come
out in sheltered valleys. That very night, he rode down early to see
Belyan.

When he climbed through her window, he found her still up, fussing
over the fire in the clay stove. She gave him a distracted sort of
kiss.

“Take off those boots before sitting on the bed, will you, love? I
don’t want muck all over the blankets.”

Maddyn leaned into the curve of the wall and began to pull them
off.

“Spring’s here,” he said. “Will it ache your heart when I ride?”

“It will, but not half as badly as seeing you hanged would ache it.”

“True enough. But, Bell, I wish I could stay, and all for your sake. I
want you to know that.”

“It would be splendid, having you with us on the farm, but I don’t
see how we could keep you hidden. A few of our friends already
know I’ve got a man, and in a few months, the whole village will
know.”

When he looked up, he found her smiling, her dark eyes as calm
as always.

“Oh, by the hells, what have I done? Gotten you with child?”

“What did you think would happen after all the rolling around we’ve
done? I’m hardly barren, am I? Oh, here, don’t look so troubled,
love. I’ve wanted another babe for ever so long now. I’m just glad
we had the time for you to give me one.”

“But I have to desert you! I don’t even have the wretched coin for
the midwife.”

“Oh, the midwife’s a friend of mine, so don’t trouble your heart over
that. I can tend a babe on my own, but I couldn’t have gotten one
without a bit of help, could I?” She laid her hands delicately on her
stomach. “Oh, I do hope it’s a daughter, but if it’s a son, shall I
name him after you?”

“Only if you truly want to. I’d rather you gave him my father’s name.
It was Daumyr.”

“Then Daumyr it is, if it’s a lad. Well, either way, I hope it has your
curly hair.”

Maddyn hesitated with a troubling suspicion rising in his mind. He’d
always known she didn’t truly love him, but he was beginning to
wonder if he’d just been put out to stud.

“Bell? Will you miss me when I’m gone?”

Somewhat startled, she considered the question.

“Well, I will,” she said at last. “A bit.”

When Maddyn left that night, the air was warm with the moist rich
smell of spring earth. At the hilltop he dismounted and stood
looking out over the dark countryside, the glitter of streams in the
moonlight, the distant mound of the sleeping village, and far away,
the gleam of the lake where the gates of the Otherlands had
almost opened to receive him. I’ve been happy this winter, he
thought; ah, curse both false kings and their balls, too!

In the morning Maddyn led his horse down the gully one last time.
Overhead, white clouds sailed by, sweeping their shadows over
the pale grass on the muddy moorland. When they reached the
foot of the hill, Nevyn handed him a worn leather pouch, jingling
with coin.

“Take it without arguing, lad. I didn’t save your life only to have you
starve on the road.”

“My thanks. I wish I could repay you for everything you’ve done for
me.”

“I’ll wager you will. Your Wyrd brought you to me once, and I
suspect it’ll do so again, but in some strange way that neither of us
can understand.”

Although Maddyn wanted to head straight west and put Cantrae
behind him as soon as he could, he was forced to turn south,
because the hills between Cantrae and Gwaentaer province were
still snowy this time of year. He went cautiously, avoiding the main
road that ran beside the Canaver down to Dun Cantrae, sticking to
winding farm lanes and what wild country there was. The only
people he allowed to see him were farmers, who, like Belyan,
cared less for the honor of war than they did for the coppers he
spent for food. After four days of this careful riding, he was at the
Gwaentaer border at a place roughly parallel with Dun Cantrae.
Here the hills were low and rolling, dotted with small farms and the
winter steadings of the horse breeders who roamed with their
herds all summer in the pasturelands. This time of year, every
house bustled with activity. Mares were foaling; hooves needed
shoeing; gear needed repairing; food had to be packed against the
first long spring ride. No one had time to notice or to care about a
solitary rider with a warrior’s saddle but a farmer’s shirt.

Just at dusk one warm day Maddyn came to the pillar stone that
marked the boundary between the two gwerbretrhynau. As he rode
past, he let go a long sigh of relief. Although he was still an outlaw,
his neck was a good bit safer now. Once, back in that peaceful and
now near-mythical past, every gwerbret in the kingdom would have
honored Tibryn’s decree of outlawry, but now in the midst of the
long-bleeding wars, fighting men were too valuable for lords to go
driving them away with awkward questions. For the first time in
weeks he felt relaxed enough to sing. Two Wildfolk came for the
song, the blue sprite perching on his saddle peak and showing him
her pointed teeth, a gnarled brown gnome who was new to him
dancing in the road beside his horse. Maddyn was so glad to see
them that he almost wept. At least one small part of his magical
winter would travel with him.

As it turned out, he soon had human company, and in a way that
never would have expected. The morning after he passed the
boundary stone, he came to the last of the hills and paused his
horse for a moment to look down and over the vast green plain of
Gwaentaer, the wind’s own country indeed, where the trees that the
farmers laboriously planted soon grew leaning, as if they shrank in
continuous fear away from the constant whistling of the wind. Since
the day was sparkling clear, he could see for miles over the land,
softly furred with the first green of grass and winter wheat, dimpled
here and there with tiny ponds or the round steadings of the widely
separated farms. He could also see a well-marked road running
dead west, and on it, not more than a mile ahead of him, a solitary
rider.

Something was wrong with the man. Even from his distance
Maddyn could see it, because the fellow was riding doubled over in
the saddle, and his horse was picking his own way, ambling slowly,
pausing every now and then to snatch a tuft of grass from the side
of the road before its rider would come to himself and get it back
under control, only to slump again a few moments later. Maddyn’s
first impulse was to ride on by a somewhat different route and not
burden himself with anyone else’s troubles, but then he thought of
Nevyn, risking his own life to heal and shelter an outlawed man.
With a chirrup to his horse, he started off at a brisk trot. The rider
ahead never heard him coming, or else he cared not a whit if he
were followed, because he never turned nor even looked back the
entire time that Maddyn was closing with him. Finally, when Maddyn
was close enough to see that the entire back of the man’s shirt was
thick with rusty-brown dried blood, the fellow paused his horse and
sat slumped and weary, as if inviting Maddyn to have a clear strike
at him and be done with it.

“Here,” Maddyn said. “What’s wrong?”

At that the rider did turn to look at him, and Maddyn swore aloud.

“Aethan, by all the gods! What are you doing on the Gwaentaer
road?”

“And I could ask the same of you, Maddo.” His voice, normally
deep and full of humor, was rasped with old pain. “Or have you
come to fetch me to the Otherlands?”

Maddyn stared for a moment, then remembered that everyone in
Cantrae thought him dead.

“Oh, I’m as much alive as you are. How were you wounded?”

“I’m not. I’ve been flogged.”

“Ah, horse dung and a pile of it! Can you ride any farther?”

Aethan considered this for a long moment. He was normally a
handsome man, with even features, dark hair just touched with gray
at the temples, and wide blue eyes that always seemed to be
laughing at some jest, but now his face was twisted in pain, and his
eyes were narrow and grim, as if perhaps he’d never laugh again.

“I need a rest,” he said at last. “Shall we sit awhile, or are you riding
on and leaving me?”

“What? Are you daft? Would I run out on a man I’ve known since I
was a cub of fifteen?”

“I don’t know anymore what men will do, and women neither.”

In a nearby meadow they found a pleasant copse of willows
planted round a farmer’s duck pond, with the farmer nowhere in
sight. Maddyn dismounted, then helped Aethan down and watered
the horses while his friend sat numbly in the shade. As he worked,
he was wondering over it all. Aethan was the last man in the
kingdom that Maddyn would have expected to get himself shamed,
flogged, and turned out of his warband. A favorite of his captain,
Aethan had been a second-in-command of Gwerbret Tibryn’s own
warband. He was one of those genuinely decent men so valuable
to any good warband—the conciliator, everyone’s friend, the man
who settled all those petty disputes bound to arise when a lot of
men are packed into a barracks together. The gwerbret himself
had on occasion asked Aethan’s advice on small matters dealing
with the warband, but now here he was, with his shame written on
his back in blood.

Once the horses were watered, Maddyn filled the waterskin with
fresh drink and sat down next to Aethan, who took the skin from
him with a twisted smile.

“Outlawed we may be, but we still follow the rules of the troop,
don’t we, Maddo? Horses first, then men.”

“We need these mounts more than ever, with no lord to give us
another.”

Aethan nodded and drank deep, then handed the skin back.

“Well, it gladdens my heart that you weren’t killed in Lord Devyr’s
last charge. I take it you found a farm or suchlike to hide in all
winter.”

“Somewhat like that. I was dying, actually, from a wound I took,
when a local herbman found me.”

“Gods! You’ve always had the luck, haven’t you?”

Maddyn merely shrugged and stoppered up the skin tight. For a
moment they merely sat there in an uncomfortable silence and
watched the fat gray ducks grubbing at the edge of the pond.

“You hold your tongue cursed well for a bard,” Aethan said
abruptly. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my shame?”

“Say what you want and not a word more.”

Aethan considered, staring out at the far flat horizon.

“Ah, horseshit,” he said at last. “It’s a tale fit for a bard to know, in a
way. Do you remember our gwerbret’s sister, the Lady Merodda?”

“Oh, and how could any man with blood in his veins forget her?”

“He’d best try.” Aethan’s voice turned hard and cold. “Her husband
was killed in battle last summer, and so she came back to her
brother in Dun Cantrae. And the captain made me her escort, to
ride behind her whenever she went out.” He was quiet, his mouth
working, for a good couple of minutes. “And she took a fancy to
me. Ah, by the black ass of the Lord of Hell, I should have said her
nay—I blasted well knew it, even then—but ye gods, Maddo, I’m
only made of flesh and blood, not steel, and she knows how to get
what she wants from a man. I swear to you, I never would have
said a word to her if she hadn’t spoken to me first.”

“I believe you. You’ve never been a fool.”

“Not before this winter at least. I felt like I was ensorceled. I’ve
never loved a woman that way before, and cursed if I ever will
again. I wanted her to ride off with me. Like a misbegotten
horseshit fool, I thought she loved me enough to do it. But oh, it
didn’t suit her ladyship, not by half.” Again the long, pain-filled
pause. “So she let it slip to her brother what had been happening
between us, but oh, she was the innocent one, she was. And when
His Grace took all the skin off my back three days ago, she was out
in the ward to watch.”

Aethan dropped his face into his hands and wept like a child. For a
moment Maddyn sat there frozen; then he reached out a timid hand
and laid it on Aethan’s shoulder until at last he fell silent and wiped
his face roughly on his sleeve.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on her.” Aethan’s voice was a flat,
dead whisper. “She did keep her brother from killing me.” He stood
up, and it was painful to watch him wince as he hauled himself to
his feet. “I’ve rested enough. Let’s ride, Maddo. The farther I get
from Cantrae, the happier I’ll be.”

For four days Maddyn and Aethan rode west, asking cautious
questions of the various farmers and peddlers that they met about
the local lords and their warbands. Even though they sometimes
heard of a man who might be desperate enough to take them in
without asking questions, each time they decided that they were
still too close to Cantrae to take the risk of petitioning him. They
realized, however, that they would have to find some place soon,
because all around them the noble-born were beginning to muster
their men for the summer’s fighting. With troops moving along the
roads they were in a dangerous position. Maddyn had no desire to
escape being hanged for an outlaw only to end up on a rope as a
supposed spy.

Since Aethan’s back was far from healed, they rode slowly,
stopping often to rest, either beside the road or in village taverns.
They had, at least, no need to worry about coin; not only did
Maddyn have Nevyn’s generous pouch, but Aethan’s old captain
had managed to slip him money along with his gear when he’d
been kicked out of Dun Cantrae. Apparently Maddyn wasn’t alone
in thinking the gwerbret’s sentence harsh. During this slow
progress west, Maddyn had plenty of time to watch and worry over
his old friend. Since always before Aethan had watched over
him—he was, after all, some ten years Maddyn’s elder—Maddyn
was deeply troubled to realize that Aethan needed him the way a
child needs his father. The gwerbret might have spared his life, but
he’d broken him all the same, this man who’d served him faithfully
for over twenty years, by half beating him to death like a rat caught
in a stable.

Always before Aethan had had an easy way with command, making
decisions, giving orders, and all in a way that made his fellows glad
to follow them. Now he did whatever Maddyn said without even a
mild suggestion that they might do otherwise. Before, too, he’d
been a talkative man, always ready with a tale or a jest if he didn’t
have serious news to pass along. Now he rode wrapped in a black
hiraedd; at times he didn’t even answer when Maddyn asked him a
direct question. For all that it ached Maddyn’s heart, he could think
of nothing to do to better things. Often he wished that he could talk
with Nevyn and get his advice, but Nevyn was far away, and he
doubted if he’d ever see the old man again, no matter how much
he wanted to.

Eventually they reached the great river, the Camyn Yraen, an “iron
road” even then, because all the rich ore from Cerrgonney came
down it in barges, and the town of Gaddmyr, at that time only a
large village with a wooden palisade around it for want of walls.
Just inside the gate they found a tavern of sorts, basically the
tavernman’s house, with half the round ground floor set off by a
wickerwork partition to hold a couple of tables and some ale
barrels in the curve of the wall. For a couple of coppers the man
brought them a chunk of cheese and a loaf of bread to go with their
ale, then left them strictly alone. Maddyn noticed that none of the
villagers were bothering to come to the tavern with them in it, and
he remarked as much to Aethan.

“For all they know we’re a couple of bandits. Ah, by the hells
Maddo, we can’t go wandering the roads like this, or we might well
end up robbing travelers, at that. What are we going to do?”

“Cursed if I know. But I’ve been thinking a bit. There’s those free
troops you hear about. Maybe we’d be better off joining one of
them than worrying about an honorable place in a warband.”

“What?” For a moment some of the old life came back to Aethan’s
eyes. “Are you daft? Fight for coin, not honor? Ye gods, I’ve heard
of some of those troops switching sides practically in the middle of
a battle if someone offered them better pay. Mercenaries! They’re
naught but a lot of dishonored scum!”

Maddyn merely looked at him. With a long sigh Aethan rubbed his
face with both hands.

“And so are we. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Maddo? Well, you’re
right enough. All the gods know that the captain of a free troop
won’t be in any position to sneer at the scars on my back.”

“True spoken. And we’ll have to try to find one that’s fighting for
Cerrmor or Eldidd, too. Neither of us can risk having some Cantrae
man seeing us in camp.”

“Ah, horseshit and a pile of it! Do you know what that means? What
are we going to end up doing? Riding a charge against the
gwerbret and all my old band someday?”

Maddyn had never allowed himself to frame that thought before,
that someday his life might depend on his killing a man who’d once
been his ally and friend. Aethan picked up his dagger and stabbed
it viciously into the table.

“Here!” The tavernman came running. “No need to be breaking up
the furniture, lads!”

Aethan looked up so grimly that Maddyn caught his arm before he
could take out his rage on this innocent villager. The tavernman
stepped back, swallowing hard.

“I’ll give you an extra copper to pay for the damage,” Maddyn said.
“My friend’s in a black mood today.”

“He can go about having it in some other place than mine.”

“Well and good, then. We’ve finished your piss-poor excuse for
ale, anyway.”

They’d just reached the door when the tavernman hailed them gain.
Although Aethan ignored him and walked out, Maddyn paused as
the taverner came scurrying over.

“I know about one of them troops you and your friend was talking
about.”

Maddyn got out a couple of coppers and jingled them in his hand.
The taverner gave him a gap-toothed, garlic-scented grin.

“They wintered not far from here, they did. They rode in every now
and then to buy food, and we was fair terrified at first, thinking they
were going to steal whatever they wanted, but they paid good coin.
I’ll say that for them, for all that they was an arrogant lot, strutting
around like lords.”

“Now that’s luck!”

“Well, now, they might have moved on by now. Haven’t seen them
in days, and here’s the blacksmith’s daughter with her belly swelling
up, and even if they did come back, she wouldn’t even know which
of the lads it was. The little slut, spreading her legs for any of them
that asked her!”

“Indeed? And where were they quartered?”

“They wouldn’t be telling the likes of us that, but I’ll wager I can
guess well enough. Just to the north of here, oh, about ten miles,
I’d say, is a stretch of forest. It used to be the tieryn’s hunting
preserve, but then, twenty-odd years ago it was now, the old tieryn
and all his male kin got themselves killed off in a blood feud, and
with the wars so bad and all, there was no one else to take the
demesne. So the forest’s gotten all overgrown and thick, like, but I
wager that the old tieryn’s hunting lodge still stands in there
someplace.”

Maddyn handed over the coppers and took out two more.

“I don’t suppose some of the lads in the village know where this
lodge is.” He held up the coins. “It seems likely that some of the
young ones might have poked around in there, just out of curiosity,
like.”

“Not on your life, and I’m not saying that to get more coin out of
you, neither. It’s a dangerous place, that stretch of trees. Haunted,
say, and full of evil spirits as well, most like, and then there’s the
wild men.”

“The what?”

“I suppose that by rights I shouldn’t call them wild, poor bastards,
because all the gods can bear witness that I’d have done the same
as them if I had to.” He leaned closer, all conspiratorial “You don’t
look like the sort of fellow who’ll be running to our lord with the
news, but the folk who live in the forest are bondsmen. Or I should
say, they was, a while back. Their lord got killed and so they took
themselves off to live free, and I can’t say as I’ll be blaming them
for it, neither.”

“Nor more can I. Your wild men are safe enough from me, but I
take it they’re not above robbing a traveler if they can.”

“I think they feels it’s owing to them, like, after all the hard work they
put in.”

Maddyn gave him the extra coppers anyway, then went out to join
Aethan, who was standing by the road with the horses’ reins in
hand.

“Done gossiping, are you?”

“Here, Aethan, the taverner had some news to give us, and it just
might be worth following down. There might be a free troop up in
the woods to the north of us.”

Aethan stared down at the reins in his hand and rubbed them with
weary fingers.

“Ah, horseshit!” he said at last. “We might as well look them over,
then.”

When they left the village, they rode north, following the river.
Although Aethan was well on the mend by then, his back still ached
him, and they rested often. At their pace it was close to sunset
when they reached the forest, looming dark and tangled on the far
side of a wild meadowland. At its edge a massive marker stone still
stood, doubtless proclaiming the trees the property of the long-
dead clan that once had owned them.

“I don’t want to be mucking around in there when it’s dark,” Aethan
said.

“You’re right enough. We’ll camp here. There’s plenty of water in
the river.”

While Aethan tended the horses, Maddyn went to gather firewood
at the forest edge. A crowd of Wildfolk went with him, darting
around or skipping beside him, a gaggle of green, warty gnomes,
three enormous yellow creatures with swollen stomachs and red
fangs, and his faithful blue sprite, perching on his shoulder and
running tiny hands through his hair.

“I’ll have to play us a song tonight. It’s been a while since I felt like
music, but maybe our luck is turning.”

Yet when it came time to play, Maddyn’s heart was still so troubled
that he found it hard to settle down to one ballad or declamation.
He got the harp in tune, then played scraps and bits of various
songs or practiced runs and chordings. Aethan soon fell asleep,
lying on his stomach with his head pillowed on folded arms, but the
Wildfolk stayed to the last note, a vast crowd of them, stretching
out beyond the pool of firelight across the meadow. Maddyn felt
awed, as if he were playing in a king’s court, the great hall crowded
with retainers. When he stopped, he felt more than heard a ripple
of eerie applause; then suddenly, they were gone. Maddyn
shuddered profoundly, then put the harp away.

After he banked the campfire, Maddyn paced a little ways into the
meadow out of restlessness and nothing more. He could see the
forest edge, looming dark not far from them, and even more, he
could feel its presence, like an exhalation of wildness. He was sure
that more than human fugitives lived there. It occurred to him that
while the long wars were a tragedy for human beings, to the
Wildfolk they were a blessing, giving them back land that men had
once taken and tamed. As he stood there in the silent meadow, it
seemed that he heard faint music, an echo of his own. Again he
shuddered convulsively, then hurried back to his safe camp.

On the morrow the blue sprite woke him just at dawn by the
expedient method of pulling his hair so hard that it hurt like fire.
When he swatted at her, she laughed soundlessly, exposing her
needle-sharp teeth. Nearby Aethan was still sleeping, but
restlessly, turning and stretching like a man who’ll wake any
moment.

“Listen carefully, little sweet one,” Maddyn said to the sprite.
“Somewhere in that forest are a whole lot of men like me and
Aethan, warriors with swords. They’ll have lots of horses, too, and
they live in a stone house. Can you lead me there?”

She thought for a long moment, then nodded her agreement and
promptly disappeared. Maddyn decided that either she’d
misunderstood or had simply forgotten, but as soon as they were
ready to ride, she reappeared, dancing and leaping on the
riverbank and pointing to the north.

“I don’t suppose that misbegotten tavernman gave you any
directions to this place,” Aethan said.

“Well, he had a confused idea or two. I’ll try to lead us there, but
don’t be surprised if it’s a bit roundabout.”

It was a good thing that Maddyn had put in his warning, because
the Wildfolk’s idea of leading someone left much to be desired. As
soon as the men started riding north, two gray gnomes appeared
to join the sprite, but they kept pinching either her or each other
and distracting her both ways from her task. Once they were all well
into the forest, the Wildfolk disappeared, leaving the men to follow
a rough deer track for several miles. Just when Maddyn had given
up on them, they flashed back into being, perching on his horse’s
neck and saddle peak and pointing off to the west down a narrow
and rough track indeed. Although Aethan grumbled (and a
welcome sign of returning life it was), Maddyn insisted on following
it, and every time the path branched, he faithfully went the way she
pointed. By noon, Maddyn was hopelessly lost, with no choice but
to follow where the Wildfolk led. Hopping from tree to tree, they
grinned, giggled, and pointed in various directions, but Maddyn
always followed the blue sprite, who threatened to bite the gray
fellows whenever they contradicted her.

“Maddo, I hope to every god and his horse that you know what
you’re doing.”

“So do I. I’ve got the ugly feeling I may have gotten us lost in
here.”

Aethan groaned with a drama worthy of a bard. Just as Maddyn
was thinking that he’d spoken the bitter truth, the sprite led them to
a big clearing, ringed round with stumps of trees. Out in the middle
was a hut built of logs, piled up whole to form a square
structure—a house different from any that Maddyn had ever seen.
The roof was neatly thatched with branches, and a wisp of smoke
trailed lazily out of the smoke hole in the roof.

“What in the three hells have you found?” Aethan sputtered.
“That’s not big enough for a band of mercenaries.”

“So it’s not. More likely it’s some of those runaway bondsmen the
taverner mentioned.”

At the sound of their voices, a man came out. He was one of the
shortest men Maddyn had ever seen, not more than five feet tall,
but he had broad shoulders and heavy arms like a miniature
blacksmith, and his legs were in perfect proportion to the rest of
him. His long black beard trailed past the round collar of the wool
tunic he wore over brigga. He carried a long woodsman’s ax like a
weapon. When he spoke, his voice was rough with a heavy guttural
accent. “And just who are you, lads?”

“Naught but a pair of lost travelers,” Maddyn said.

“Thieves, more like.” The fellow hefted the ax. “And what brought
you into these wretched woods in the first place?”

“We were looking for a mercenary troop,” Aethan broke in. “A
tavernman in Gaddmyr said there might be one quartered in this
forest.”

“All we want to do is see if they’ll take us on,” Maddyn said. “I
swear it, we’re not thieves, and I don’t know what a hermit like you
would have that’s worth stealing, anyway.”

The man considered with his ax at the ready. When Maddyn
noticed the blade, he nearly swore aloud in surprise. Although the
metal gleamed exactly like silver, it had an edge as sharp as steel
by the look of it, and it carried not one nick or bite.

“Now, here,” Aethan said. “We’ll be more than glad to leave you
alone if you’ll only show us the way out of these blasted woods.”

“Go back the way you came, of course.”

“Good sir, we’re lost,” Maddyn said, and quickly, because he didn’t
like the black look on Aethan’s face.

“Indeed? You found me easily enough.”

“Well, I was following one of the . . . ” Maddyn broke off just in
time.

As if she knew he was thinking of her, the blue sprite popped into
existence, settling on his shoulder and kissing his hair. The fellow
frankly stared and lowered his ax to lean on it like a walking stick.
Quickly he darted a conspiratorial glance at Aethan, who of course
had seen nothing, and then gave Maddyn a grudging smile.

“Well, perhaps I could take you to the old lodge after all, but your
horses look worn out from all these wretched trees. There’s a
spring over there, by that bit of stump. Give them a drink first. My
name’s Otho, by the by.”

“And I’m Maddyn, and this is Aethan. My thanks for your help. Do
you know this troop?”

“Somewhat. I did a bit of work for them this winter, fixing buckles
and suchlike. I’m a smith, you see.”

It was Maddyn’s turn to stare. What was a smith doing out in the
middle of a wilderness? Then it occurred to him that Otho might
have some dishonor of his own behind him.

“Now, Caradoc—that’s their leader—isn’t a bad man, considering
what he is,” Otho went on. “He wants me to ride south with him
when they go. I’ve been thinking it over.”

While Aethan watered the horses, Otho went into his cabin, then
reappeared wearing a leather vest over his tunic and carrying a
different ax, one with a long handle banded with metal and
obviously made as a weapon, which he used to good advantage
for clearing brush and overhanging branches. The trail was so
narrow and twisty that the men had to lead their horses. It was
about the middle of the afternoon when they came into a vast
clearing of some five acres and saw the high stone walls of what
once had been a noble’s hunting lodge. The wooden gates were
long since rotted away, letting them see the broch, still in
reasonable repair, and a collection of tumbledown sheds inside.

As they walked up, Caradoc himself came out to meet them. Otho
introduced him, a tall, slender man with the long, ropy arms of a
born swordsman, and the high cheekbones and pale hair of a
southern man. He seemed about Aethan’s age, in his mid-thirties,
and for all that he was a dishonored, man, there was something
impressive about Caradoc, the proud way he stood, the shrewd
way he looked men over with eyes that seemed to have seen a lot
of life.

“Since you’re looking for bodies to sell,” Otho said, ’”I brought you
a couple.”

“Interesting.” Caradoc gave them each a pleasant smile. “Here’s
Aethan with a Cantrae boar on his shirt, and Maddyn dressed like a
farmer but carrying a sword. I looked, like the pair of you once. Left
a warband down in Cerrmor a bit . . . well, sudden, like. Never did
bid a proper farewell to my lord . . . I’ll wager, Aethan, that there’s
scars on your back, judging from the stains on your shirt.”

“More than a few. Cursed, if I’ll tell you why.”

“I’d never ask. Now, here’s the terms, lads. I’ll take anyone on for a
summer. If you can’t fight, then you’ll die in a scrap, and we’ll be rid
of you. If you can fight, then you get an equal share of the coin.
And remember: I’m the leader of this pack of dogs, You give me
one bit of trouble, and I’ll beat the shit out of you. Scribe that deep
into your ugly hearts: you ride at orders, or you don’t ride.”

It was obvious that Caradoc meant what he said as soon as they
went into the dun. Instead of the banditlike pile of filth that Maddyn
had been dreading, the camp was as clean as a great lord’s
barracks. There were thirty-six men in the troop, and their gear was
well tended, their horses good, healthy stock, and their discipline
tighter, in fact, than that of Maddyn’s old warband. As Caradoc
introduced the new recruits around, the other members of the band
paid him such strict and respectful attention that Maddyn began to
wonder if he were noble-born. Otho came along with them,
listening to Caradoc and stroking his beard in thought, but he said
naught a word until they all went outside again so that Maddyn and
Aethan could unsaddle their horses and unload their gear.

“Well, Otho,” Caradoc said. “We’ll be pulling out soon. Coming
with us to Eldidd?”

“I might, at that. I’ve gotten used to a bit of company, especially
company that can pay a smith better than the stinking bondsmen in
this forest.”

“So we can, and you’ll like Eldidd well enough once we get there.”

“Hah! I’ve got my doubts about that. They always say that there’s
elven blood in Eldidd veins.”

“Not that again!” Caradoc mugged a doleful expression. “As much
as I admire your craft, good smith, I have to say that your wits are a
bit thin in places. Elves, indeed!”

“Mock all you want, but elven blood makes a man unreliable.”

“It’d make any man unreliable to have a myth in his clan’s
quarterings.” Caradoc ran one finger down the silvery blade of
Otho’s ax. “But talk about elves all you want, just so long as you
keep working your witchcraft on metals. When we’re all as rich as
lords and the most famous free troop in all of Deverry, you’re going
to make us swords out of that warlock’s metal of yours.”

“Hah! You’d have to be a king to afford that, my friend. You’ll be
blasted lucky if you ever get rich enough to have so much as a
dagger out of it.”

After Maddyn and Aethan had their horses settled and fed in the
stables, one of the men, Stevyc by name, came to help them carry
their gear into the broch. When he picked up the big leather bag
that held Maddyn’s harp, he broke into a grin.

“Which one of you is the bard?”

“I am,” Maddyn said. “But not much of one, a gerthddyn, truly, if
that. I can sing, but I don’t have a true bard’s lore.”

“And who gives a pig’s fart who some lord’s great-great-great-
grandam was? This is a bit of splendid luck.” Stevyc turned, calling
out to Caradoc. “Here, Captain, we’ve got a bard of our own.”

“And next we’ll be eating off of silver plates, like the great lords we
are.” Caradoc came strolling over. “But a bard would have come in
handy this winter, with the pack of you causing trouble because you
had naught better to do. Well and good, then, Maddyn. If you sing
well enough, you’ll be free of kitchen work and stable duty, but I’ll
expect you to make up songs about our battles just like you would
for a lord.”

“I’ll do my best, Captain, to sing as well as we deserve.”

“Better than we deserve, Maddyn lad, or you’ll sound like a cat in
heat.”

After a rough dinner of venison and turnips, Maddyn was given his
chance to sing, sitting on a rickety, half-rotted table in what had
once been the lodge’s great hall. He’d only done one ballad when
he realized that his place in the troop was assured. The men
listened with the deep fascination of the utterly bored, hardly
noticing or caring when he got a bit off-key or stumbled over a line.
After a winter with naught but dice games and the blacksmith’s
daughter for entertainment, they cheered him as if he were the
best bard at the king’s court. They made him sing until he was
hoarse, that night, and let him stop only reluctantly then. Only
Maddyn and Otho knew, of course, that the hall was filled with
Wildfolk, listening as intently as the men.

That night, Maddyn lay awake for a long while and listened to the
familiar sound of other men snoring close by in the darkness of a
barracks. He was back in a warband, back in his old life so firmly
that he wondered if he’d dreamt those enchanted months in Brin
Toraedic. The winter behind him seemed like a lost paradise, when
he’d had good company and a woman of his own, when he’d had a
glimpse of a wider, freer world of peace and dweomer—a little
glimpse only; then the door had been slammed in his face. He was
back in the war, a dishonored rider whose one goal in life was to
earn the respect of other dishonored men. At least Belyan was
going to have his baby back in Cantrae, a small life who would
outlive him and who would be better off as a farmer than his father
would be as a warrior. Thinking about the babe, he could fall
asleep at last, smiling to himself.

On the day that Maddyn left Brin Toraedic, Nevyn spent a good
many hours shutting up the caves for the summer and loading
herbs and medicines into the canvas mule packs. He had a journey
of over nine hundred miles ahead of him, with stops along the way
that were crucial to the success of his long-range plans. If he were
to succeed in making a dweomer king to bring peace to the
country, he would need help from powerful friends, particularly
among the priesthoods. He would also need to find a man of royal
blood worthy of his plans. And that, or so he told himself, might
well be the most difficult part of the work.

The first week of his journey was easy. Although the Cantrae roads
were full of warbands, mustering to begin the ride to Dun Deverry
for the summer’s fighting, no one bothered him, seemingly only a
shabby old herbman with his ambling mule, his patched brown
cloak, and the white hair that the local riders respected as a sign of
his great age. He followed the Canaver down to its joining with the
river Nerr near the town of Muir, a place that held memories some
two hundred years old. As he always did when he passed through
Muir, he went into the last patch of wild forest—now the hunting
preserve of the Southern Boar clan. In the midst of a stand of old
oaks was an ancient, mossy cairn that marked the grave of
Brangwen of the Falcon, the woman he had loved, wronged, and
lost so many years ago. He always felt somewhat of a fool for
making this pilgrimage—her body was long decayed, and her soul
had been reborn several times since that miserable day when he’d
dug this grave and helped pile up these rocks. Yet the site meant
something to him still, because, if for no other reason, it was the
place where he’d sworn the rash vow that was the cause of his
unnaturally long life.

Out of respect for a grave, even though they could have no idea of
whose it was, the Boars’ gamekeepers had left the cairn
undisturbed. Nevyn was pleased to see that someone had even
tended it by replacing a few fallen stones and pulling the weeds
away from its base. It was a small act of decency in a world where
decency was in danger of vanishing. For some time he sat on the
ground and watched the dappled forest light playing on the cairn
while he wondered when he would find Brangwen’s soul again. His
meditation brought him a small insight: she was reborn, but still a
child. Eventually, he was sure, in some way Maddyn would lead him
to her. In life after life, his Wyrd had been linked to hers, and,
indeed, in his last life, he had followed her to the death, binding a
chain of Wyrd tight around them both.

After he left Muir, Nevyn rode west to Dun Deverry for a firsthand
look at the man who claimed to be king in the Holy City. On hot
spring day, when the sun lay as thick as the dust in the road, he
came to the shores of the Gwerconydd, the vast lake formed by
the confluence of three rivers, and let his horse and mule rest for a
moment by the reedy shore. He was joined by a pair of young
priests of Bel, shaven-headed and dressed in linen tunics, who
were also traveling to the Holy City. After a pleasant chat, they all
decided to ride in together.

“And who’s the high priest these days?” Nevyn asked. “I’ve been
living up in Cantrae, so I’m badly out of touch.”

“His Holiness, Gwergovyn,” said the elder of the pair.

“I see.’” Nevyn’s heart, sank. He remembered Gwergovyn all too
well as a spiritual ferret of a man. “And tell me somewhat else. I’ve
heard that the Boars of Cantrae are the men to watch in court
circles.”

Even though they were all alone on the open road, the young priest
lowered his voice when he answered.

“They are, truly, and there are plenty who grumble about it, too. I
know His Holiness thinks rather sourly of the men of the Boar.”

At length they came to the city, which rose high on its four hills
behind massive double rings of stone walls, ramparted and
towered. The wooden gates, carved with a wyvern rampant, were
bound with iron, and guards in thickly embroidered shirts stood to
either side, Yet as soon as Nevyn went inside, the impression of
splendor vanished. Once a prosperous city had filled these walls;
now house after house stood abandoned, with weed-choked yards
and empty windows, the thatch blowing rotten in dirty streets. Much
of the city lay in outright ruin, heaps of stone among rotting, charred
timbers. It had been taken by siege so many times in the last
hundred years, then taken back by the sword, that apparently no
one had the strength, the coin, or the hope to rebuild. In the center
of the city, around and between two main hills, lived what was left
of the population, scarcely more than in King Bran’s time. Warriors
walked the streets and shoved the townsfolk aside whenever they
met. It seemed to Nevyn that every man he saw was a rider for one
lord or another, and every woman either lived in fear of them or had
surrendered to the inevitable and turned whore to please them.

The first inn he found was tiny, dirty, and ramshackle, little more
than a big house divided into a tavern room and a few chambers,
but he lodged there because he liked the innkeep, Draudd, a
slender old man with hair as white as Nevyn’s and a smile that
showed an almost superhuman ability to keep a sense of humor in
the midst of ruin. When he found out that Nevyn was an herbman,
Draudd insisted on taking out his lodging in trade.

“Well, after all, I’m as old as you are, so I’ll easily equal the cost of
your herbs. Why give me coins only to have me give them right
back?”

“True-spoken. Ah, old age! Here I’ve studied the human body all
my life, but I swear old age has put pains in joints I never knew
existed.”

Nevyn spent that first afternoon in the tavern, dispensing herbs for
Draudd’s collection of ailments and hearing in return all the local
gossip, which meant royal gossip. In Dun Deverry even the
poorest person knew what there was to know about the goings-on
at court. Gossip was their bard, and the royalty their only source of
pride. Draudd was a particularly rich source, because his youngest
daughter, now a woman in her forties, worked up in the palace
kitchens, where she had plenty of opportunities to overhear the
noble-born servitors like the chamberlain and steward at their
gossip. From what Draudd repeated that day, the Boars were so
firmly in control of the king that it was something of a scandal.
Everyone said that Tibryn, the Boar of Cantrae, was close to being
the real king himself.

“And now with the king so ill, our poor liege, and his wife so young,
and Tibryn a widower and all . . . ” Draudd paused for dramatic
effect. “Well! Can’t you imagine what we folk are wondering?”

“Indeed I can. But would the priests allow the king’s widow to
marry?”

Draudd rubbed his thumb and forefinger together like a merchant
gloating over a coin.

“Ah, by the hells!” Nevyn snarled. “Has it gotten as bad as all that?”

“There’s naught left but coin to bribe the priests with. They’ve
already gotten every land grant and legal concession they want.”

At that point Nevyn decided that meeting with Gwergovyn—if
indeed he could even get in to see him—was a waste of time.

“But what ails the king? He’s still a young man.”

“He took a bad wound in the fighting last summer. I happened to
be out on the royal road when they brought him home. I’d been
buying eggs at the market when I heard the bustle and the horns.
And I saw the king, lying in a litter, and he was as pale as snow, he
was. But he lived, when here we all thought they’d be putting his
little lad on the throne come winter. But he never did heal up right.
My daughter tells me that he has to have special food, like. All soft
things, and none of them Bardek spices, neither. So they boil the
meat soft, and pulp apples and suchlike.”

Nevyn was completely puzzled: the special diet made no sense at
all for a man who by all accounts had been wounded in the chest
He began to wonder if someone were deliberately keeping the king
weak, perhaps to gain the good favor of Tibryn of the Boar The
best way to find out, of course, was to talk to the king’s physicians.
On the morrow he took his laden mule up to the palace, which lay
on the northern hill. Ring after ring of defensive walls, some stone,
some earthworks, marched up the slope and cut the hill into
defensible slices. At every gate in every wall, guards stopped
Nevyn and asked him his business, but they always let a man with
healing herbs to sell pass on through. Finally, at the top, behind
one last ring, stood the palace and all its outbuildings and servant
quarters. Like a stork among chickens, a six-story broch, ringed by
four lower half-brochs, rose in the center. If the outer defenses fell,
the attackers would have to fight their way through a warren of
corridors and rooms to get at the king himself. In all the years of
war, the palace had never fallen to force, only to starvation.

The last guard called a servant lad, who ran off to the royal
infirmary with the news that an herbman waited outside. After a wait
of some five minutes, he ran back and led Nevyn to a big round
stone building behind the broch complex. There they were met by
a burly man with dark eyes that glared under bushy brows as if their
owner were in a state of constant fury, but when he introduced
himself as Grodyn, the head chirurgeon, he was soft-spoken
enough.

“An herbman’s always welcome. Come spread out your wares,
good sir. That table by the window would be best, I think, right in
the light and fresh air.”

While Nevyn laid out packets of dried herbs, tree barks, and sliced
dried roots, Grodyn fetched his apprentice, Caudyr, a sandy-haired
young man with narrow blue eyes and a jaw so sharply modeled it
looked as if it could cut cheese. He also had a club foot, which
gave him the rolling walk of a sailor. Between them the two
chirurgeons sorted through his wares and for starters set aside his
entire stock of valerian, elecampane, and comfrey root.

“I don’t suppose you ever get down to the seacoast,” Grodyn said
in a carefully casual tone of voice.

“Well, this summer I’m thinking of trying to slip through the battle
lines. Usually the armies don’t much care about one old man. Is
there somewhat you need from the sea?”

“Red kelp, if you can get it, and some sea moss.”

“They work wonders to soothe an ulcerated stomach or bad
bowels.” Nevyn hesitated briefly. “Here, I’ve heard rumors about
this peculiar so-called wound of our liege the king.”

“So called?” Grodyn paid busy attention to the packet of beech
bark in his hand.

“A wound in the chest that requires him to eat only soft food.”

Grodyn looked up with a twisted little smile.

“It was poison, of course. The wound healed splendidly. While he
was still weak, someone put poison into his mead. We saved him
after a long fight of it, but his stomach is ulcerated and bleeding,
just as you guessed, and there’s blood in his stool, too. But we’re
trying to keep the news from the common people.”

“Oh, I won’t go bruiting it about, I assure you. Do you have any idea
of what this poison was?”

“None. Now here, you know herbs. What do you think this might
be? When he vomited, there was a sweetish smell hanging about
the basin, rather like roses mixed with vinegar. It was grotesque to
find a poison that smelled of perfume, but the strangest thing was
this: the king’s page had tasted the mead and suffered not the
slightest ill effect. Yet I know it was in the mead, because the
dregs in the goblet had an odd rosy color.”

Nevyn thought for a long moment, running over the long chains of
lore in his memory.

“Well,” he said at last. “I can’t name the herbs out, but I’ll wager
they came originally from Bardek. I’ve heard that poisoners there
often use two different evil essences, each harmless in
themselves. The page at table doubtless got a dose of the first
one when he tested the king’s mead, and the page of the chamber
got the other. The king, alas, got both, and they combined into
venom in his stomach.”

As he nodded his understanding, Grodyn looked half sick with
such an honest rage that Nevyn mentally acquitted him of any part
in the crime. Caudyr, too, looked deeply troubled.

“I’ve made special studies of the old herbals we have,” the young
chirurgeon said. “And never found this beastly poison. If it came
from Bardek, that would explain it.”

“So it would,” Nevyn said. “Well, good sirs, I’ll do my best to get
you the red kelp and what other emollients I can, but it’ll be autumn
before I return. Will our liege live that long?”

“If no one poisons him again.” Grodyn tossed the packet of beech
bark onto the table. “Ah ye gods, can you imagine how helpless I
feel? Here I am, fighting to undo the effects of one poison while
someone is doubtless scheming out a way to slip him a second!”

“Wasn’t there any inquiry into this poisoning?”

“Of course.” Abruptly Grodyn turned guarded. “It found out naught,
though. We suspect a Cerrmor spy.”

Oh, I’ll just wager you do! Nevyn thought to himself; that is, if there
are Boars in Cerrmor, anyway.

Their business over, Nevyn put on a good show of expressing the
gossipy interest that any visitor to the palace would have in seeing
the place where the king lived. Caudyr, who seemed to be a good-
hearted lad, took him on a tour of the semi-public gardens and
outbuildings. It took only the slightest touch of Neyyn’s dweomer to
sense that the palace was filled with corruption. The omen came to
him as the smell of rotting meat and the sight of maggots, crawling
between the stones. He banished the vision as quickly as he:
could; the point was well made.

As they were walking to the front gate, they saw a noble hunting
party returning: Gwerbret Tibryn of the Boar, with a retinue of
servants and huntsmen behind him and his widowed sister at his
side. As Nevyn led his mule off to the side out of the way of the
noble-born, he noticed Caudyr watching the Lady Merodda
wistfully. Just twenty, the lady had long blond hair, bound up in soft
twists under the black headscarf of a widow, wide green eyes, and
features that were perfect without being cold. She was truly
beautiful, but as he watched her, Nevyn loathed her. Although he
couldn’t pinpoint his reasons, he’d never seen a woman he found
so repellent. Caudyr was obviously of the opposite opinion. Much
to Nevyn’s surprise, when Merodda rode past she favored Caudyr
with a brilliant smile and a wave of her delicately gloved hand.
Caudyr bowed deeply in return,

“Now here, lad,” Nevyn said with a chuckle. “You’re nocking an
arrow for rather highborn game.”

“And don’t I just know it? I could be as noble as she is, but I’d still
be deformed.”

“Oh, my apologies! I meant naught of that sort.”

“I know, good sir, I know. I fear me that years of being mocked
have made me touchy.”

Caudyr bowed and hurried away with his rolling, dragging limp.
Nevyn was heartsick over his lapse; it was a hard thing to be
handicapped in a world where women and men both worshipped
warriors. Later that day, however, he found out that Caudyr bore
him no ill will. Just after sunset Caudyr came to Nevyn’s inn,
insisted on buying him a tankard, and sat them both down at a table
in a corner, far from the door.

“I was wondering about your stock of herbs, good Nevyn. You
wouldn’t happen to have any northern elm bark, would you?”

“Now here! I don’t traffic in abortifacients, lad.”

Caudyr winced and began studying the interior of his tankard.

“Ah well,” the lad said at last. “The bark’s a blasted sight safer than
henbane.”

“No doubt, but the question is why you’re doing abortions at all. I
should think that every babe these days would be precious.”

“Not if it’s not sired by your husband. Here, please don’t despise
me. There’s a lot of noblewomen who spend all summer at court,
and well, their husbands are off on campaign for months at a time,
and well, you know how things happen, and well, they come to me
in tears, and—”

“Shower you with silver, no doubt.”

“It’s not the coin!”

“Indeed? What is it, then? The only time in your life that women
have come begging you for somewhat?”

When tears welled in Caudyr’s eyes, Nevyn regretted his harsh
accuracy. He looked away to give the young chirurgeon a chance
to wipe his face. It was the infidelities more than the abortions that
bothered Nevyn. The thought of noblewomen, whose restricted life
gave them nothing but their honor to take pride in, turning first to
illicit affairs, then to covering them over, made him feel that the
kingdom was rotting from the center out. As for the abortions, the
dweomer lore teaches that a soul comes to indwell a fetus only in
the fourth or fifth month after conception; any abortion before that
time is only removing a lump of flesh, not a living child. By the time
a noblewoman was in her fifth month, Nevyn supposed, her
indiscretion would be known already, and so doubtless Caudyr was
solving their little problems long before the fetus was truly alive.

“Now one moment.” Nevyn was struck by a sudden thought.
“You’re not using ergot, are you, you stupid little dolt?”

“Never!” Caudyr’s voice rose in a sincere squeak. “I know the
dangers of that.”

“Good. All it would take is for one of your noble patients to die or
go mad, and then you’d be up to your neck in a tub of horseshit
good and proper.”

“I know. But if I didn’t find the right herbs for these ladies, they’d be
cast off by their husbands, and probably end up smothering the
babe anyway, or they’d go to some old witch of a farmwife, and
then they would die.”

“You split hairs so well you should have been a priest.”

Caudyr tried to smile and failed utterly, looking like a child who’s
just been scolded when he honestly didn’t know he’d done a wrong
thing. Suddenly Nevyn felt the dweomer power, gathering round
him, filling his mouth with words that burned straight out of the
future.

“You can’t keep this sort of thing quiet. When the king dies, his
murderers will need a scapegoat. It’s going to be you, because of
this midnight physic you’ve been dispensing. Live ready to flee at
the first sign that the king is sinking. Can Tibryn of the Boar find out
about your unsavory herbs?”

“He could, the lady Merodda . . . I mean . . . ah ye gods! Who are
you, old man?”

“Can’t you tell dweomer when you hear it? The Boar will take his
sister’s evidence, turn it against you, and have you broken on the
wheel to avert suspicion from himself. If I were you, I’d leave well
before the end comes, or they’ll hunt you down as a regicide.”

Caudyr jerked to his feet so fast that he toppled both his tankard
and Nevyn’s, then fled, racing out of the tavern door. Although old
Draudd gave Nevyn a questioning look, he also shrugged as if to
say it was none of his affair. Nevyn retrieved the tankards from the
floor, then turned on the bench so that he could look directly into
the peat fire smoldering on the tavern hearth. As soon as he bent
his mind to Aderyn, his old apprentice’s image appeared with his
enormous dark eyes and his gray hair swept up in two peaks at his
forehead like the horns of a silver owl.

“And how’s your scheme progressing?” Aderyn thought to him.

“Well enough, I suppose. I’ve learned one very important thing. I’d
rather die than put any Cantrae king on the throne.”

“Is it as bad as all that?”

“The palace stinks like the biggest dung heap on the hottest day of
the longest summer. I can’t see how any young soul could grow up
there without being corrupted from birth. I’m not even going to
bother talking to the priests here. They’re corrupt, too, and
doubtless in new and unusual ways.”

“I haven’t seen you this angry in about a hundred years.”

“Naught’s been so vexing in a hundred years. The most honorable
man I’ve met here is an abortionist. Does that give you a hint?”

Floating about the fire, Aderyn’s image rolled its eyes heavenward
in disgust.

Caradoc and his band of mercenaries left the deserted hunting
lodge soon after Maddyn and Aethan joined the troop. Although
everyone was speculating about where they would go, the captain
told no one until the morning of their departure. Once the men were
mounted and formed up in neat ranks that would have done the
king’s guard credit, Caradoc inspected them carefully, then pulled
his horse up to face them.

“It’s Eldidd, lads. We’ve got too many men who can’t let
themselves be seen around Dun Deverry to take a hire on
Slwmar’s side, and I don’t dare be seen in Cerrmor. I’ve hoarded
some coin from the winter, seeing as our lodging was free and all,
so I think we can ride straight there.”

Although no one cheered this prospect of leaving home for a
foreign land, no one muttered in discontent, either. Caradoc
paused, as if waiting for grumblers, then shrugged and raised his
hand.

“Otho the smith’s meeting us on the road with a wagon. Forward . .
. march!”

With a jingle of tack the troop executed a perfect turn in ranks and
began to file out the dun gate, two by two. As a mark of honor to a
bard, Maddyn rode next to Caradoc at the head of the line. Over
the next few days, as they worked their way southwest as quickly
as possible, he had plenty of chances to study his new leader. The
biggest puzzle that ate at his bardic curiosity was whether or not
Caradoc was noble-born. At times, when the captain was
discussing some point of the royal law or giving orders with his firm
authority, Maddyn was sure that he must have been bom the
younger son of a lord. Yet when it came to coin, he had the
grasping shrewdness of an old peasant woman, an attitude he
never would have learned among the nobility. Occasionally Maddyn
dropped hints or half-questions about the past into their
conversation, but Caradoc never rose to the bait. When the troop
camped for the night, Caradoc ate alone like a lord, and Maddyn
shared a fire with Aethan and a small crowd of Wildfolk.

After a week of riding, the troop crossed the Aver Trebyc at a point
about a hundred miles west of Dun Deverry. Caradoc gave orders
that the men were to ride armed and ready for trouble. He sent out
point men and scouts ahead of the main body of riders, because
they were approaching the border between Cerrmor-held and
Cantrae-held territory. The precautions paid off with a rather
strange prize. On the second day of riding armed, when they were
finally getting close to the Eldidd border, the troop stopped for the
noon rest in a grassy meadow that had never known plow or herd.
When the point men came back to change the guard, they brought
with them a traveler, an unarmed man with rich clothing, a beautiful
riding horse, and an elegant pack mule that had obviously been
bred from the best stock. Maddyn was surprised that the poor doll
had survived unrobbed for as long as he had. The young, sandy-
haired fellow looked so terrified that Maddyn supposed he was
thinking similar thoughts.

“He says he comes from Dun Deverry,” the point man said. “So we
brought him along in case he had any interesting news.”

“Good,” Caradoc said. “Now look, young fellow, we’re not going to
slit your throat or even rob you. Come have a meal with me and
Maddyn here.”

With a most discourteous groan, the stranger looked around at the
well-armed troop, then sighed in resignation.

“So I will, then. My name’s . . . uh . . . Claedd.”

Caradoc and Maddyn each suppressed a grin at the clumsiness of
the lie. When the stranger dismounted, Maddyn saw that he had a
clubfoot, which seemed to ache him after so many days in the
saddle. As they shared a meal of flatbread and cheese, the
supposed Claedd told them what little he knew about the troop
movements around the Holy City. The current rumor was that the
northern forces were planning to make a strong strike along the
eastern borders of the Cerrmor kingdom.

“If that’s true,” Caradoc said thoughtfully, “we’ll have no trouble
getting a hire in Eldidd. Probably the Eldidd king will want to take
the chance to raid into Pyrdon.”

“Oho!” Claedd said. “Then you’re a free troop! Well, that’s a relief.”

“Oh, is it now? Most men would think the opposite.” Caradoc shook
his head, as if he were utterly amazed at the innocence of this lad.
“Well and good, then. Who’s chasing you? It’s safe to tell me. I’ve
sunk pretty low, lad, but not so low that I’d turn a man in for the
bounty on his head.”

Claedd concentrated on shredding a piece of flatbread into
inedible crumbs.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Caradoc said after a
moment. “But think about traveling with us. You’ll be a blasted sight
safer. Ever had a fancy to see Eldidd?”

“That’s where I was trying to go, and you’re right enough about it
being safer. I’ve never swung a sword in my life. I’m a . . . uh . . . a
scholar.”

“Splendid. Maybe I’ll need a letter written some fine day.”

Although Claedd managed a feeble smile at the jest, his face
stayed deadly pale. Yet, when the troop rode out, he came with
them, riding by himself just behind Otho’s wagon. At the night
camp, Maddyn took pity on him and offered to let him share their
fire. Although he brought out food from his mule packs, Claedd ate
little of it, merely sat quietly and watched Aethan polishing his
sword. When, after the meal, Caradoc strolled over for a chat,
Claedd again said little as the captain and the bard talked idly of
their plans in Eldidd. Finally, though, at a pause he spoke up.

“I’ve been thinking about your offer, Captain. Could you use a troop
chirurgeon? I finished my apprenticeship only a year ago, but I’ve
had an awful lot of practice at tending wounds.”

“By all the ice in all the hells!” Maddyn said. “You’re worth your
weight in gold!”

“Cursed right.” Caradoc cocked his head to one side and
considered the young chirurgeon. “Now, I’m not a curious man,
usually, and I like to leave my lads their privacy, like, but in your
case, I’ve got to ask. What’s a man with your learning doing
traveling the long lonely roads like this?”

“You might as well know the truth. First of all, my name’s Caudyr,
and I was at the court in Dun Deverry. I mixed up a few potions and
suchlike for some highborn ladies to rid them of . . . ah, well . . . a
spot of . . . er, well . . . trouble now and again. The word’s gotten
out about it in rather a nasty way.”

Caradoc and Aethan exchanged a puzzled glance.

“He means abortions,” Maddyn said with a grin. “Naught that should
vex us, truly.”

“Might even come in handy, with this pack of dogs I’ve got,”
Caradoc said. “Well and good, then, Caudyr. Once you’ve shown
me that you can physic a man, you’ll get a full share of our
earnings, just like a rider. I’ve discovered that a lord’s chirurgeon
tends his lord’s men first and the mercenaries when he has a mind
to and not before. I’ve had men bleed to death who would have
lived if they’d gotten the proper attention.”

Idly Maddyn happened to glance Aethan’s way to find him staring
at Caudyr in grim suspicion.

“Up in Dun Deverry, were you?” Aethan’s voice was a dry, hard
whisper. “Was one of your highborn ladies Merodda of the Boar?”

In a confession stronger than words, Caudyr winced, then blushed.
Aethan got to his feet, hesitated, then took off running into the
darkness.

“What, by the hells?” Caradoc snapped.

Without bothering to explain, Maddyn got up and followed, chasing
Aethan through the startled camp, pounding blindly after him
through the moon-shot night down to the riverbank. Finally Aethan
stopped and let him catch up. They stood together for a long time,
panting for breath and watching the silver-touched river flow by.

“With a bitch like that,” Maddyn said finally. “How would you even
know that the babe was yours?”

“I kept my eye on her like a hawk all winter long. If she’d looked at
another man, I’d have killed him, and she knew it.”

With a sigh Maddyn sat down, and after a moment, Aethan joined
him.

“Having a chirurgeon of our own will be a cursed good thing,”
Maddyn said. “Can you put up with Caudyr?”

“Who’s blaming him for one single thing? I wish I could kill her. I
dream about it sometimes, getting my hands on her pretty white
throat and strangling her.”

Abruptly Aethan turned and threw himself into Maddyn’s arms.
Maddyn held him tightly and let him cry, the choking ugly sob of a
man who feels shamed by tears.

Two days later the troop crossed the border into Eldidd. At that
time, the northern part of the province was nearly a wilderness,
forests and wild grasslands broken only by the occasional dun of a
minor lord or a village of free farmers. Plenty of the lords would
have liked to hire the troop, because they were in constant danger
of raids coming either from the kingdom of Pyrdon to the north or
from Deverry to the east. None, however, could pay Caradoc what
he considered the troop was worth. With thirty-seven men, their
own smith, chirurgeon, and bard, the troop was bigger than the
warbands of most of the lords in northern Eldidd. Just when
Caradoc was beginning to curse his decision to ride that way, the
troop reached the new town of Camynwaen, on the banks of an
oddly named river, the El, just as the spot where the even more
strangely named Aver Cantariel flows in from the northwest.

Although there had been a farming village on the site for centuries,
only twenty years before had the gwerbret in Elrydd decided that
the kingdom needed a proper town at the joining of the rivers.
Since the war with Pyrdon could flare up at any time, he wanted a
staging ground for troops and a properly defensible set of walls
around it. Finding colonists was no problem, because there were
plenty of younger sons of noble lords willing to risk a move to gain
land of their own, and plenty of bondsmen willing to go with them
since they became free men once they left their bound land. When
Caradoc’s troop rode into Camynwaen, they found a decent town
of a thousand round houses behind high stone walls, turreted with
watchtowers.

About a mile away was the stone dun of Tieryn Maenoic, and there
Caradoc found the kind of hire he’d been looking for. Although
Maenoic received maintenance from the gwerbret to the south,
there was a shortage of fighting men in his vast demesne, and he
had a private war on his hands. Since the authority of his clan was
fairly new, he was always plagued with rebellions. For years now
the chief troublemaker had been a certain Lord Pagwyl.

“And he’s gathered together a lot of bastards like himself,”
Maenoic said. “And they claim they’ll ask the gwerbret to give them
a tieryn of their own and not submit to me. I can’t stand for it.”

He couldn’t, truly, because standing for it would not only take half
his land away but also make him the laughingstock of every in
Eldidd. A stout hard-muscled man, with a thick streak of gray in his
raven-dark hair, Maenoic was steaming with fury as he strode back
and forth, looking over the troop, who were sitting on their horses
outside the gates to Maenoic’s dun. Caradoc and Maddyn followed
a respectful distance behind while the lord judged the troop’s
horses and gear with a shrewd eye.

“Very well, Captain. A silver piece per week per man, your
maintenance, and of course I’ll replace any horses that you lose.”

“Most generous, my lord,” Caradoc said. “For peacetime.”

Maenoic turned to scowl at him.

“Another silver piece per man for every battle we fight,” Caradoc
went on. “And that’s paid for every man who dies, too.”

“Far too much.”

“As it pleases your lordship. Me and my men can just ride on.”

And over to your enemies, perhaps—the thought hung unspoken
between them for a long moment. Finally Maenoic swore under his
breath.

“Done, then. A second silver piece per man for every scrap.”

With an open and innocent smile, Caradoc bowed to him.

Maenoic’s new-built dun was large enough to have two sets of
barracks and stables built into the walls—a blessing, because the
mercenaries could be well separated from Maenoic’s
contemptuous warband. At meals, though, they shared the same
set of tables, and the warband made barely tolerable comments
about men who fought for money and quite intolerable comments
about the parentage and character of such who did so. Between
them Caradoc and Maenoic broke up seven different fistfights in
two days before the army was at last ready to ride out.

After he called in all his loyal allies, Maenoic had over two hundred
and fifty men to lead west against his rebels. In the line of march,
Caradoc’s troop came at the very end, behind even the supply
wagons, and ate dust all day long. At night they made camp by
themselves a little way off from the warbands of the noble-born.
Caradoc, however, was summoned when the lords held a council
of war. He came back to the troop with solid news and gathered
them around him to hear it.

“Tomorrow we’ll see the first scrap. Here’s how things stand, lads.
We’re coming to a river, and there’s a bridge there. Maenoic claims
the taxes on it, but Pagwyl’s holding out. The scouts say Pagwyl’s
going to make a stand to prevent the tieryn from crossing, because
once he crosses against Pagwyl’s will, it’s his bridge again in
everybody’s eyes. We’ll be leading the charge—of course.”

Everyone nodded, acknowledging that they were, after all, the
disposable mercenaries. Maddyn found himself troubled by a
strange feeling, a coldness, a heaviness. It took him a long time to
admit it, but then he realized that he was quite simply afraid. That
night he dreamt of his last charge up in Cantrae and woke soaked
cold sweat. You coward, he told himself; you ugly little coward! The
reproach burned in his very soul, but the truth was that he had
almost died in that last charge, and now he knew what it felt like to
be dying. The fear choked him as palpably as if he’d swallowed a
clot of sheep’s wool. What was worst of all was knowing that here
was one thing he could never share with Aethan.

All night, all the next morning, the fear festered so badly that by the
time the army reached the bridge, Maddyn was hysterically happy
that the battle was at hand and soon to be over. He was singing
under his breath and whistling in turn when the army crested a low
rise and saw, just as they’d expected, Lord Pagwyl and his allies
drawn up by the riverbank to meet them. There was a surprise,
however, in the men who waited for them: a bare hundred mounted
swordsmen, eked out by two big squares of common-born
spearmen, placed so that they blocked any possible approach to
the bridge itself.

“Oh, here,” said Maddyn, forcing a laugh. “Pagwyl was a fool to
rebel if that’s all the riders he could scrape together.”

“Horseshit!” Caradoc snapped. “His lordship knows what he’s
doing. I’ve seen fighting like this before, spearmen guarding a
fixed position. We’re in for a little gallop through the third hell, lad.”

As Maenoic’s army milled around in confusion, Caradoc led his
men calmly up to the front of the line. The enemy had picked a
perfect place to stand, a long green meadow in front of the bridge,
bordered by the river on one side of their formation and on the
other, the broken, crumbling earthwork of some long-gone farmer’s
cattle corral. Three rows deep, the spearmen stood shield to
shield, the spearheads glittering around the chalk-whitened oval
shields. To one side of the shield wall, the mounted men sat on
restless horses, ready to charge in from the side and pin
Maenoic’s men between them and the river.

“Horseshit and a pile of it,” Caradoc muttered. “We can’t wheel
round the bastards without falling into the blasted river.”

Maddyn merely nodded, too choked for breath to answer. He was
remembering the feel of metal biting deep into his side. Under him,
his horse tossed its head and stamped as if it, too, were
remembering their last charge. When Caradoc trotted off to confer
with Maenoic, Aethan pulled up beside Maddyn; he’d already
settled his shield over his left arm and drawn a javelin. While he
followed the example, Maddyn had to work so hard to keep his
horse steady that he suddenly realized that the poor beast did
remember that last charge. He had a battle-shy horse under him
and no time to change him.

The spearmen began calling out jeers and taunting the enemy for
scum on horseback, screaming into the sunlight and the wind that
blew the taunts into jagged, incomprehensible pieces of words.
Some of Maenoic’s men shouted back, but Caradoc’s troop
merely sat on their horses and waited until at last their captain left
the lord’s side and jogged back, easy in his saddle, a javelin in his
hand.

“All right, lads. We’re riding.”

There was a gust of laughter in the troop as they jogged forward to
join him. Maenoic’s own men pulled in behind, but the rest of the
army wheeled off, ready to charge the enemy riders positioned off
to the side. With an odd jingling shuffle, like a load of metal wares
jouncing in a cart, the army formed up. Caradoc turned in his
saddle, saw Maddyn right next to him, and yelled at him over the
noise.

“Get back! I want to hear our bard sing tonight. Get back in the last
rank!”

Maddyn had never wanted to follow an order more in his life, but he
fought with himself only a moment before he shouted back his
answer.

“I can’t. If I don’t ride this charge, then I’ll never have the guts to
ride another.”

Caradoc cocked his head to one side and considered him.

“Well and good, then, lad. We might all be doing our listening and
singing in the Otherlands, anyway.”

Caradoc turned his horse, raised his javelin, then broke into a
gallop straight for the enemy lines. With a howl of war cries, the
troop burst after him, a ragged race of shrieking men across the
meadow. Maddyn saw the waiting infantry shudder in a wave-ripple
of fear, but they held.

“Follow my lead!” Aethan screamed. “Throw that javelin and
wheel!”

Closer—a cloud of dust, kicked-up bits and clods of grass—the
infantry shoving together behind the line of lime-white
shields—then there was a shower of metal as Caradoc and his
men hurled javelins into the spearmen. Shields flashed up, caught
some of the darts, but there was cursing and screaming as the
riders kept coming, throwing, wheeling, peeling off in a long, loose
circle. Maddyn heard battle yells break out behind as the reserve
troops charged into Pagwyl’s cavalry. Snorting, sweating, Maddyn’s
horse fought for the bit and nearly carried them both into the river.
Maddyn drew his sword, slapped the horse with the flat, and jerked
its head around to spur it back to the troop.

The first rank of Maenoic’s men were milling blindly, waving swords
and shouting, in front of the shield wall. Caradoc galloped among
his troop, yelling out orders to re-form and try a charge from the
flank. Maddyn could see that Maenoic’s allies had pushed Pagwyl’s
cavalry back to expose the shield wall’s weakest spot. In a cloud
and flurry of rearing horses, the troop pulled around and threw itself
forward again. Maddyn lost track of Aethan, who was shoved off to
the flank when Maenoic’s men, blindly pulling back to charge again,
got themselves mixed up with the charging mercenaries. One or
two horses went down, their riders thrown and trampled, before
Caradoc sorted out the mess into some rough order. Maddyn
found himself in Maenoic’s warband. For one brief moment he
could see Caradoc, plunging at the flank of the shield wall with a
mob behind him. Then his own unit rode forward for the charge.

On and on—the shield wall was trembling, turning toward its
beleaguered flank, but it held tight directly ahead of Maddyn. From
the men behind him javelins flew. Maddyn’s horse bucked and
grabbed for the bit; he smacked it down and kicked it forward. A
split-second battle—of nerve, not steel—Maddyn saw the slack-
jawed face of a young lad, his hands shaking on his braced spear,
his eyes suddenly meeting Maddyn’s as he galloped straight for
him. With a shriek the lad dropped his spear and flung himself
sideways. As the man next to him fell, cursing and flailing, Maddyn
was in. Dimly he saw another horseman to his right. The shield wall
was breaking. Swinging, howling with an unearthly laughter, Maddyn
shoved his horse among the panicked spearmen. Ducking and
bobbing in the saddle like a water bird, he slashed out and down,
hardly seeing or caring whom or what he was hitting. A spearhead
flashed his way. He caught it barely in time and heard his shield
crack, then shoved it away as he twisted in the saddle to meet
another flash of metal from the right. Always he laughed, the cold
bubble of a berserker’s hysteria that he could never control in
battle.

His horse suddenly reared, screaming in agony. As they came
closer the horse staggered, its knees buckling, but it couldn’t fall.
All around was a press—panicked infantry, trapped cavalry, horses
neighing and men shouting as they shoved blindly at one another.
Desperately Maddyn swung out, cutting a spearman across the
face as his dying horse staggered a few steps forward. All at once
the line broke, a mob-panicked scuffle of men, throwing spears
down, screaming, pushing their fellows aside as they tried to get
away from the slashing horsemen. Maddyn’s mount went down. He
had barely time to free his feet from the stirrups before they hit the
ground hard, a tangle of man and horse. Maddyn’s shield fell over
his face; he could neither see nor breathe, only scramble
desperately to get up before a retreating spearman stuck him like a
pig. On his knees at last, he flung up his shield barely in time to
parry a random thrust. The force of the blow cracked the shield
through and sent him reeling backward to his heels. He saw the
spearman laugh as he raised the spear again, both hands tight on
the shaft to drive it home for the kill; then a javelin flew into the
press and caught the man full in the back. With a scream, he
pitched forward, and the men around him ran.

Staggering, choking on dust and his own eerie laughter, Maddyn
got to his feet. Around him the field was clearing as the horsemen
charged the fleeing infantry and rode them down, slashing in blind
rage at men who could no longer defend themselves. Maddyn
heard someone yell his name and turned to see Aethan, riding for
him at a jog.

“Did you throw that dart?” Maddyn called out.

“Who else? I’ve heard you laugh before, and I knew that cat’s
squalling meant you were in trouble. Get up behind me. We’ve won
this scrap.”

All at once, Maddyn’s battle fever deserted him. He felt pain, bad
pain, cracked ribs burning like fire. Gasping for breath, he grabbed
at Aethan’s stirrup to steady himself, but the movement made the
pain stab him into crying out. With a foul oath, Aethan dismounted
and caught him round the shoulders, a well-meant gesture that
made Maddyn yelp again.

“Hard fall,” Maddyn gasped.

With Aethan shoving him from behind, Maddyn managed to
scrabble his way onto the horse. He kept telling himself that riding
was better than walking, but he hung on to the saddle peak, with
both hands to brace himself against the motion as Aethan led the
horse out of the death-strewn welter of the battlefield. As they went
by, he saw some of Caradoc’s men looting the dead, friend and
enemy alike.

Up the riverbank the chirurgeons and their apprentices were waiting
for the wounded. Aethan took Maddyn over to Caudyr, then went
back to the field to pull more wounded men out of the dead and
dying. When he tried to walk to the chirurgeon’s wagon, Maddyn
fell, then lay on the ground for an hour while Caudyr frantically
worked on the men who were far worse off. At times Maddyn
drowsed, only to wake with an oath for his burning ribs; the sun was
hot, and he sweated copiously inside the mail he couldn’t remove
by himself. All he could think about was water, but no one had time
to bring him any until Aethan returned. He fetched him a drink,
unlaced the mail and helped him slide it off, then sat down beside
him.

“We’ve won good and proper for all the good it does us. Maenoic’s
got Pagwyl’s body at his feet, and his allies are all suing for peace
right now.”

“Is Caradoc alive?”

“He is, but not a lot of the godforsaken rest of us are. Maddo, we’re
down to twelve men.”

“Ah. Can I have some more water?”

Aethan held the waterskin so he could drink again. Only then did he
truly understand his friend’s words.

“Oh ye gods! Only twelve?”

“Just that.”

After another hour Caudyr came, his shirt blood-soaked down the
front and up to his elbows. All he could do for Maddyn’s ribs was to
bind them with a wet linen band. As it dried in the sun, it would
tighten enough to let him sit up. Maddyn’s left shoulder was also a
mass of bleeding, ring-shaped bruises: the mark of his own mail,
pressed right down through his clothes when he’d fallen. Caudyr
washed them down with a slop of mead from a wooden cup.
Maddyn shrieked once, then bit his lower lip to keep from doing it
again. Caudyr handed him the cup.

“Drink the rest of this,” Caudyr said. “I put some painkilling herbs in
it, too. It’ll take the edge off.”

The stuff was bitter and stinking, but Maddyn got it down a few sips
at a time. He was just finishing the cupful when Caradoc came over
and half sat, half fell next to him. Caradoc’s sweaty face was
spattered with some other man’s blood, and his eyes were dark
and exhausted. With a long sigh he ran grimy hands through his
hair.

“This is the worst scrap I’ve ever fought.” The captain’s voice was
halfway between a growl and a whisper. “Well, what else did I
expect? That’s what we’re for, this dishonored pack of dogs thrown
out ahead of everyone. It’s going to happen again, lads. Again and
again.”

Since the herbed mead was making Maddyn’s head swim, he had
to bend all his will to understand what Caradoc was saying. Aethan
put one arm around him and helped him sit up.

“It’s a fine short life we’re going to have,” the captain went on. “Ah,
horseshit and a pile of it! Now listen, Maddo. I know you rode into
that scrap with no guts for it, and I honor you. That’s enough.
You’ve proved you’re not a coward, so stay out of it from now on. A
bard’s too valuable a man to lose.”

“Can’t. What kind of honor would I have?”

“Honor?” Caradoc tossed his head back and howled with high-
pitched laughter. “Honor! Listen to you! You don’t have any honor,
you god-cursed little bastard! None of us do. Haven’t you listened
to one piss-poor word I’ve been saying? No noble lord sends men
with honor into a suicide charge, but they sent us, and I took it
because I had to. We’ve got as much honor as a pack of whores:
all that counts is how good we fuck. So stay out of it from now on.”
He laughed, again, but the pitch was closer to his deep-voiced
normal tone. “Listen, when my Wyrd takes me, I want to know that
there’s a man still alive who can take over whatever’s left of the
troop. You pack of whoreson bastards are the only thing I have in
life, and blasted if I know why, but I want to know the rotten-assed
troop will last longer than I do. From now on, bard, you’re my heir.”

Caradoc got up and strode away. Maddyn slumped back and felt
the world spin around him.

“Do what he says,” Aethan growled.

Maddyn tried to answer but fainted instead.

By the time the army returned to Maenoic’s dun, another man in
Caradoc’s troop had died. That left eleven, plus Caradoc himself,
Otho, and Caudyr, to huddle dispiritedly in a corner of a barracks
that had once housed nearly forty of them. The war over, Lord
Maenoic turned generous, telling Caradoc that he was welcome to
his shelter until his remaining wounded (Maddyn and Stevyc) were
ready to ride. He also promptly paid over the negotiated wages
and even added a couple of silver pieces as a bonus.

“Bastard,” Caradoc remarked. “If he hadn’t hired me to do it for
him, he would have had to lead that charge himself, and his piss-
proud noble lordship knows it.”

“He’d be dead, too,” Maddyn said. “He’s not half the man on the
field that you are.”

“Don’t flatter the captain, you whelp of a bard, but as a cold, hard
assessment, like, you’re right enough.”

After a day or two in bed, Maddyn was well enough to go down to
the great hall for dinner. Caradoc and his men sat together as far
away from the rest of the warband as they could, drank hard, and
said next to nothing, not even each other. Occasionally Caradoc
would try to joke with his demoralized pack, but it was a hard thing
to smile in answer to him. When Maddyn grew too tired to sit up,
the captain helped him back to the barracks. Otho was already
there, twining the rings of a bit of shattered mail by lantern light.

“I’ve been thinking, smith,” Caradoc said. “Remember our jest
about the silver daggers? We’ve got a good bit of extra coin. Is it
enough to make us some?”

“Mayhap, but how am I going to work metal on the road?”

“We’ll be sheltering here for at least one week, and if Maddyn and
Stevyc groan and moan like dying men, we can eke out another.
There’s a forge here in the dun, and the blacksmith says it’s a good
one.”

Otho considered, running gnarled fingers through his beard.

“You need somewhat to pick the lads up a bit,” the dwarf said at
last.

“I do, and my own spirits could use a little raising, for that matter. A
silver dagger—it’s a nice bit of jewelry for a man to wear.” Caradoc
paused to stare into the hearth fire for a long moment. “I’m
beginning to get an idea. Do you know this troop is going to
survive? By being the rottenest pack of black-hearted bastards
Eldidd has ever seen, by making it an honor to become a silver
dagger, an honor to a certain kind of man, I mean. Someone like
our Aethan. He’s as death-besotted and hard a man as I’ve ever
seen. I wouldn’t cross him myself. Never wanted to die with a slit
throat in a brawl.”

Maddyn was shocked to the heart. Caradoc was right about
Aethan, he realized; his old friend would never again be the man
who used to laugh and jest and solve all the little problems of the
Cantrae warband. It hurt worse than his cracked ribs, thinking about
it.

“When you break a man down to naught, he turns into an animal,”
the captain went on, somewhat meditatively. “Then if you give him
somewhat to live for, he turns into a man again, but it’s a hard kind
of man, like the blade of a sword. That’s the kind of lads I want, and
the silver dagger’s what they’re going to live for.” All at once he
grinned, his hiraedd lifting. “Oh, they’ll beg us for it, one fine day,
but by every sticky hair on the Lord of Hell’s ass, they re going to
have to earn it. What kind of metal do you need, Otho? I’ll ride into
town on the morrow and see if I can buy it for you.”

“You won’t. You’ll give me the coin and let me see if I can find what
I need. No man learns the formula for this alloy—I cursed well
mean it.”

“Have it your way, then, but I want a dagger for every man we’ve
got left, and, say, five more for new recruits—if I can find men
worthy of the things, that is.”

“Then I’ll get started on it right away.” All at once, Otho grinned, the
first smile Maddyn had ever seen on his face. “Ah, it’s going to feel
so good doing a bit of smelting and mixing again.”

Otho was as good as his word. On the morrow he first bribed Lord
Maenoic’s blacksmith into letting him use the dun forge, then rode
off into town, with his wagon. He returned late in the day with sundry
mysterious and heavy bundles, which he refused to let any man
touch, not even to help him unload. That very night he shut himself
up in the forge and stayed there for a solid week, sleeping beside
his work, if indeed he slept at all. Once, in the middle of the night,
when Maddyn went down to the ward to use the privy, he heard
hammering coming from the forge and saw red light glowing
through the window.

On the morning when the daggers were finished, Caradoc decided
that it was time to leave Maenoic’s hospitality. Not only were
Maddyn and Stevyc both healed, but he wanted Otho to display his
handiwork someplace where he could avoid awkward questions
about it. After a last farewell to the lord, the troop saddled up and
rode out, but they went only a half mile down the road before they
turned off it, jogging out into a wild meadow and forming a rough
circle about the smith and his wagon.

“Get ’em, out, Otho,” Caradoc, said. “Dismount, men, so you can
see clearly.”

The troop clustered round while a proud if somewhat weary Otho
unpacked a large leather sack. Nestled in straw were daggers for
each of them, beautiful weapons, with a blade that glowed like
silver but was harder than the finest steel. Maddyn had never
handled weapon or tool with such a sharp edge.

“You won’t have to polish those much, neither,” Otho said. “They
won’t tarnish, not even in blood. Now, if any of you wants a mark or
device, like, graved onto it, I’ll do it, but you’re paying me a silver
piece for the job.”

“This’ll do to cut a throat with, won’t it?” Aethan said to Maddyn.

“Blasted right. I’ve never had a knife I liked more.”

As solemnly, as carefully as priests performing a rite, the troopers
drew their old daggers and replaced them with the new. Although
Caradoc seemed to be hardly watching, his eyes lazy and heavy-
lidded, Maddyn knew that he was judging the effect of the gesture.
The men were smiling, slapping each other on the back, standing
straight for a change, their morale better than it had been in days.

“Well and good, then,” Caradoc said. “We’re all silver daggers
now, lads. Doesn’t mean a lot, I guess, except that we fight like
sons of bitches, and we earn our hire.”

Spontaneously the troop cheered him, ragged remnant though it
was. When they remounted, they all formed of their own accord
into a tight military order and trotted down the road to Camynwaen,
where Caradoc had promised them a day of liberty before they
started searching for a new hire. Near the west gate they found an
inn that seemed big enough to shelter the lot of them, but the
skinny, trembling innkeep announced that it was full.

“The stable looks empty to me,” Caradoc said. “We’ll pay you the
going price.”

“And what if you wreck the place? The wretched coin won’t do me
one bit of good then.”

“And what if we wreck it without paying you first?”

Although he moaned and wrung his hands, the innkeep gave in
quickly. In truth, he did have some custom, enough so that Aethan
and Maddyn ended up sharing a small chamber tucked under the
roof. While they ate their noon meal in the tavern room, the entire
troop talked about women. Caradoc dispensed what was left of
their wages along with some orders.

“We’re in a town we may visit again someday, so you keep your
paws off any lasses who don’t want you, and your fists out of the
faces of decent citizens, and I don’t want to hear about anyone
puking their guts out in a townsman’s garden, either. Do it in the
gutters, and leave their daughters alone.”

After one hurried goblet of mead, Maddyn and Aethan went out for
a stroll. By then it was midafternoon, and the streets were full of
townsfolk, hurrying about their business. They all took one quick
look at the pair of mercenaries, then either crossed the street or
turned down an alleyway to avoid them. After a leisurely circuit of
the town, they found a little tavern next to the baker’s and went in.
They had the place pretty much to themselves, except for the
serving lass, a tousled sort of blonde with a soft, round face and
heavy breasts. When she brought them tankards of dark ale, she
lingered with an impartial smile for them both. Not bad, Maddyn
thought, and he could tell from Aethan’s predatory eyes that he
agreed.

“What’s your name?” Aethan asked.

“Druffa, and what’s yours?”

“Aethan, and this is Maddyn. You don’t happen to have a friend as
pretty as you, do you? We could all sit down and have a bit of a
chat.”

“Chat indeed. And I suppose you lads are interested in a nice
game of carnoic or gwyddbwcl.”

“Do you have a better sort of game in mind?”

“I might. It depends on how generous you are.”

Aethan raised a questioning eyebrow in Maddyn’s direction.

“What about that friend?” Maddyn said.

“Well now, most of them would be busy this time of day. It’s a pity
you didn’t come by at night, like.”

“Ah, by the hells, then why bother?” Aethan said with a shrug. “Why
don’t you just come back to our inn with us? We’ve got a proper
bed, better than a hayloft, and we’ll buy a skin of mead.”

Caught between drunkenness and fastidiousness, Maddyn shot
him a foul look, but Aethan was paying strict attention to the lass.
Druffa giggled in a pleasurable surprise.

“It might be rather amusing,” she announced. “I’ll go get the mead
and just tell Da where I’m going.”

When she minced off, Aethan turned to Maddyn with a shrug. “Wet
fur, dry fur—does it matter?” His voice cracked. “They’re all bitches
anyway.”

Maddyn finished the ale in his tankard in two long gulps. He had the
vague thought of slipping away on the street, letting Aethan have
this lass and finding himself another, but he was too drink-muddled
to find his way back on his own in this unfamiliar town. When they
came round to the back door of the inn, Aethan paused long
enough to lean Druffa against the wall and kiss her. Maddyn found
the sight exciting in a troubling sort of way. He made no protest
when the lass suggested they all go upstairs.

Yet once they were in the quiet chamber, Maddyn’s shyness
returned in force. He barred the door behind them and rummaged
in a saddlebag for a wooden cup, while Aethan untied the mead
skin. Druffa giggled and took it away from him.

“Let’s leave the drinking for later. You promised me a bit of fun,
Aethan.”

“So I did. Take off that dress, then.”

With a peal of giggles, Druffa began to untie her highly
inappropriate virgin’s kirtle. The cup clutched in his hand, Maddyn
watched as she undressed—slowly, smiling at the pair of them the
entire time. When she stepped out of the underdress to reveal
soft, pale skin and dark nipples, he felt the sexual tension in the
room like a stroke across his groin. She gave Aethan one kiss,
then turned to Maddyn, took the cup out of his hand, and kissed
him, too, drawing them both after her to sit down on the bed.

It was several hours after sundown before they let her make her
escape, pleading exhaustion between giggles. In a drunken,
satisfied gallantry, Maddyn put on enough of his clothes to escort
her downstairs and press a clutch of coppers into her hand.
Although he may have been overpaying her, he felt she’d earned it.
When he staggered back into the chamber, he found the candle
burning itself out in the lantern and Aethan sound asleep and
snoring on his side of the bed. Maddyn took off his brigga, threw a
blanket over Aethan, then blew out the candle and lay down. The
room spun slowly and majestically around him in a gold-flecked
darkness. And what would old Nevyn think of me now? he thought;
well, thanks be to the gods, he’ll never know what became of me.
Then he fell asleep as suddenly as he’d blown out the candle.

When he left Dun Deverry, Nevyn headed straight south, following
the open road that ran beside the Belaver. He’d gone no more than
five miles when he met a mounted patrol of five of the king’s riders,
coming right for him. Automatically, thinking little of it, he pulled off
to the side to let them pass, but their leader hailed him and trotted
over, blocking his path.

“That’s a fine mule you’ve got there, herbman. He’s going to see
the king’s service, too.”

“Oh, is he now?” Nevyn looked deep into the man’s eyes and sent
a soothing flow of magnetic force out of his aura. “You don’t want
this mule. He comes up lame too often to be of use to you.”

“Do you think I’d fall for such a clumsy ruse?” He started to laugh,
then merely shook his head, his eyelids drooping. “Clumsy ruse. I
don’t want that mule.”

“Truly, you don’t want this mule.”

The warrior yawned, shook himself, then turned his horse around.

“Come on, lads, we don’t want that mule. He comes up lame too
often to be of any use to us.”

Although they looked puzzled, the others obeyed him without
question and trotted after as he headed back toward Dun Deverry.
In a bad temper, Nevyn rode on, and this time he kept a good
watch out for mounted men. The incident made him think over his
proposed route. Although he’d been planning on riding to Eldidd,
he disliked the idea of having to ensorcel endless patrols of
confiscating warriors the whole way there. Thanks to the war, he
could no longer simply take a ship from Cerrmor, but just possibly
there were less legitimate ships than ran the border far out to sea
where few could catch them. Even though it was a good bit out of
his direct route, he decided to swing by Dun Mannanan and see
what he could find.

At that time Dun Mannanan was a pleasant-looking little town of
some two thousand souls, whose round houses marched up from
the harbor in tidy semicircles. Despite the war every house looked
oddly prosperous, with fresh thatch, nicely whitewashed walls, and
a handsome cow and a flock of hens in every yard. The town’s one
inn was clean and tidy, too, with a proper stable out back. It was
quite a surprise, then, when he went into the tavern room and found
the innkeep cooking stew at a hearth where the spit across the fire,
the kettle itself, and the long spoon were made of bronze, not iron.
When he commented about it, the innkeep snarled under his
breath.

“You won’t find a bit of good iron all along the Cerrmor coast, good
sir. Naught can come south through the Cantrae battle lines, you
see, and our wonderful king and his wonderful warbands to have
shoes for their misbegotten horses and swords and suchlike. So
they strip every bit of iron they can find, right down to the rotten
buckle on your belt, and if you ask for repayment, you get it in
bruises.” He paused to spit into the fire. “Even the plowshares are
tipped with bronze, and they don’t plow as deep, I tell you. So
there’s less of a yield every year, and the misbegotten king still
takes the same taxes out of it.”

“I see. Ye gods! I never dreamt things had gone as far as all this.”

“I only wonder how far they’ll go. Soon enough we’ll all have gold
hinges on our privy doors—it’ll be cheaper than iron.” His laugh
was not a pleasant one.

As the evening wore on, a fair amount of customers drifted into the
inn. As soon as they realized that Nevyn was an herbman, he had
custom of his own and set up something of a dispensary on a table
in the curve of the wall, out of the tavernman’s way. When he was
done, a young sailor named Sacyr, who’d bought herbs to ease a
bad hangover, settled down next to him and insisted on buying a
round of ale so that he could start developing his symptoms all
over again.

“Will you be staying in Dun Mannanan long, sir?”

“I won’t, truly. I’m hoping to find a ship going to Morlyn—on the
Eldidd border, you know—one that has the draft to take my horse
and mule. There are some valuable herbs that only grow in that part
of the kingdom.”

Sacyr nodded, taking the lie with the faith of the ignorant, and
considered the question.

“Well, I do know a man who’s running a good-sized boat west. He
might be stopping in Morlyn.”

“Stopping there? How much further west can you go these days?”

Looking suddenly stricken, Sacyr devoted himself to his tankard.

“Now, here.” Nevyn dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’d truly like to
get to Eldidd, and I’ll pay well for my passage. Is that at all
possible?”

“It just might be. Wait around here a bit.”

In about an hour, a stout, graying man in the checked brigga of a
merchant appeared, pausing in the tavern door and looking around
carefully before he came any further. When Sacyr hailed him, he
strolled over to the table, but he had a cautious eye for Nevyn.

“Sit down, Cabydd,” Sacyr said. “There’s coin in it”

With a small smile, the merchant sat. Sacyr leaned across the table
to whisper.

“This herbman has a great desire to get to Eldidd. He needs a ship
that can carry stock. I don’t suppose you’d know of such a thing.”

“Well.” Cabydd paused to size Nevyn up. “It’s a dangerous trip,
good sir. I can’t guarantee your safety if the Eldidd war galleys
catch us.”

“Ah, I see.” Nevyn was quite sure that he could do the
guaranteeing, though he didn’t dare tell Cabydd that, of course.
“But slipping across the border by land won’t be much safer, and
it’d be a cursed sight longer.”

“True enough. But what if you came across from the west, right by
Cannobaen?”

“Perfect! That’s exactly where I want to go.”

“Well and good, then. How many head of stock do you have?”

“Only one horse and a mule.”

“Oh, well now, that’s no trouble at all. You see, I’ve got a cattle boat
that’ll hold a hundred head easy, but we’ll be running empty on the
westward trip.”

“I think I begin to understand. You’ve found a less than patriotic
Eldidd man who’s selling you war horses for the Cerrmor army.”

“Not an Eldidd man.” Cabydd leaned close to whisper. “Some of
the Westfolk. Ever heard of them? They’re a strange lot. They crop
their babies’ ears like calves, and they speak this language that’d
break your jaw, but they raise beautiful horses. But best of all, they
hate the men of Eldidd with a passion, so they sell at good prices
to supply Eldidd’s enemies.”

Nevyn caught his breath. Although he knew that the elves never
forgot a grudge, he was surprised at how far they would go to
satisfy one.

On the next night, Nevyn went down to the dark, silent harbor at
about the middle of the third watch, when the tide was turning to run
out. At the end of a long wooden pier, muffled lanterns winked with
a narrow beam beside the squat shape of the cattle boat. Nevyn
coaxed his animals across the gangplank and settled them in
solitary splendor in the hold, then came back up on deck. Cabydd
showed him the low cabin, built on deck like a hut, that they would
share: two narrow bunks bolted to the wall, and a tiny table and
bench bolted to the floor.

“The lads sleep on deck, but we do put up an old tent if it rains,”
Cabydd remarked. “The ship has to look shabby, you see, and I
have to look poor.” He shuddered briefly. “Let’s pray to Mannanan
ap Lier to keep the Eldidd galleys away! Once we pass Cerrmor,
I’ll pick up an escort—you’ll see—but I’ve no desire to find myself
in the middle of a sea battle.”

Even though the wind was brisk, it took them two full days to reach
Cerrmor in the lumbering, awkward boat. They never put into the
harbor, because a sleek Cerrmor war galley was already waiting for
them. Cabydd ordered the sails down and let the boat drift while
the galley manoeuvered alongside and grappled on. The rowers,
all free men and marines, rested at their oars while their captain
made the precarious jump up to the cattle boat’s deck.

“We’ll follow the usual plan,” he said to Cabydd. “You stay about
fifteen miles out to sea. We’ll follow a parallel course, just in sight
of you. We’ll meet at the usual harbor near the Westfolk’s camp.”

“Done, then, but come in our way every now and then so I can see
that we haven’t lost you.”

As long as they were in Deverry waters, the two ships sailed close
together, but about noon of the next day, Cabydd and his crew
turned the cattle boat’s clumsy nose out to sea and wallowed along
against the tide until the galley’s captain hailed them and told them
they’d gone far enough out. Although Cabydd turned again, the
galley kept going, heading out to sea. From that point on, Cabydd
spent most of his time in the bow, keeping watch himself rather
than trusting one of his men.

Four long anxious days and nights on the open sea brought them
finally far enough west to turn back inland. Soon the Cerrmor galley
joined them, and they sailed together to a tiny harbor, little more
than a bite out of the chalk cliffs, with a short, rickety pier. Although
the cattle boat edged in beside it, the galley headed straight for the
sandy beach. As the high carved prow scraped on land, the
marines jumped over the side, grabbed the gunwales in well-
trained unison, and ran her up onto the sand.

“Well, Nevyn,” Cabydd said. “Will you shelter on board tonight?”

“My thanks, but it’s just a bare hour past noon. I’ll be on my way.”

As soon as Nevyn got his horse and mule on deck, they smelled
land and practically bolted for it. He led them across the soft sand
to the scrubby grassland just beyond the beach, then returned to
fetch his saddles and mule packs. A couple of the sailors helped
him carry the gear over.

“Look.” One of the lads pointed. “Westfolk.”

On golden horses two men and a woman were riding up, sitting
easy in their elaborately stamped and tasseled leather saddles,
their pale hair like moonlight to their mounts’ sun. The sailors
dumped Nevyn’s gear near his stock, then ran back toward their
ship as if they thought the elves would eat them or suchlike. When
Nevyn called out a friendly greeting in Elvish, the woman turned her
horse and trotted over, though the two men continued on to meet
the marines.

“Greeting, elder one,” she said in the same tongue. “You speak
too well to be a merchant.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a friend of Aderyn of the Silver Wings. Do you
know him?”

“I know of him, but never has the honor been mine to meet him. Do
you study the moonland lore, too?”

“Yes. I’m going to be traveling east from here, going to Eldidd. Will
I be safe on the road?”

“A man like you is always safe among the People, but watch out for
the Eldidd swine. You never know what they’ll do.”

“Oh yes.” Nevyn agreed for politeness’ sake. “I’m surprised you’ll
trade with my people at all.”

“The longer the war goes on, the more Eldidd men die. Besides,
they won’t be trying to take our lands as long as there’s fighting to
the east.” She raised her hand in mock salute. “May there be a king
in Cerrmor for a hundred years!”

Although he was planning on going to Eldidd eventually, Nevyn’s
real destination lay just to the west of the border, where out to sea
rise the three drowned peaks that form the islands of Wmmglaedd.
Nevyn rode along the sea cliffs through meadows of tall,
windswept grass for the rest of that day and on into the next, when
he reached the low hills where neither men nor elves lived. On the
third day, he came through a narrow pass to a wide, rocky beach,
where the slow waves washed over gravel with a sad mutter, as if
the sea were endlessly talking to itself. A scant two miles offshore,
he saw the dark rise of the main island against the silver glitter of
the Southern Sea.

Since the tide was at its full, Nevyn had to wait before he could
cross over. He led his animals down to the two stone pillars that
marked the entrance to the stone causeway, still underwater at the
moment, and watched the waves lapping at the carved notches.
Sure enough, the tide was turning, as each wave fell a little lower
han the one before. Crying and mewling, seabirds swooped down
as if to take a look at him, the graceful gulls, the occasional osprey,
and the ungainly pelicans who were sacred to the god Wmm.

As he idly watched the birds, Nevyn thought over the job ahead of
him, convincing the priests of the Water Temple to aid the
dweomer in the work of healing the torn kingdom. He was
oppressed by doubts; thinking about his elaborate scheme in cold
blood made it seem daft.

As the waves fell back, the long causeway emerged, streaming
water like a silver sea snake. Nevyn waited until the sun and wind
had dried it off, then led his balky stock across. Snorting, they
picked their hooves up high on the unfamiliar footing. Ahead the
island rose up, about ten miles long and seven wide, with a low hill
standing in the midst of meadows of coarse sea grass. Since the
day was sunny (a rare thing at Wmmglaedd), he could just pick out
the temple buildings themselves as he went across. At the end of
the causeway stood a stone arch, carved with panels of interlace
and roundels decorated with pelicans, and an inscription: “Water
covers and reveals all things.”

Just as Nevyn left the causeway for solid land, a young priest came
hurrying across the meadow to meet him. A blond lad of about
sixteen, he was dressed in dark brigga and a linen overshirt of an
ordinary cut, but on the yokes of the shirt, where a lord’s blazon
would go, were orange pelicans.

“Welcome, good traveler. What brings you to the water temple of
Wmm?”

“I need the help of the oracles of the god. My name is Nevyn.”

“And mine’s Cinrae. The god gives oracles to all who ask.”

The temple complex was a good mile away across the windblown
meadow. As they walked along, Cinrae said not a word more, and
Nevyn wondered about him and his reasons for choosing this
lonely life so young. He was a good-looking boy, though his
slender face was chapped and red from the continual sea wind, but
his blue eyes were oddly distant, a bit wistful, as if he felt that
ordinary life had nothing to offer him. In the shelter of the hill rose a
high stone broch and, scattered around it, some storage sheds,
two small round houses, and a stables. A few wind-gnarled trees
cast small patches of shade; a few flowers struggled to bloom in
the shelter of walls. The wind sighed around the buildings and
swirled the sandy dust in a perpetual scour. Out beyond the
complex Nevyn could see kitchen gardens, a field of barley, and
some white cows at pasture. Although the pious made donations to
Wmm when they wanted his advice, the coin would never have
been enough to provision the temple. Cinrae pointed to a small
round hut with a freshly thatched roof right by the stable well.

“That’s the guesthouse, good sir. I’ll put your baggage in there
after I’ve stabled your horse and mule. See the big house over
there? That belongs to the high priest and you can pay him your
respects straightaway.”

“My thanks, and I will. Is Adonyc still the head of the order here?”

“Oh he died ever so long ago. Pedraddyn was called to replace
him.”

As so often happened, Nevyn was caught by surprise at just how
fast the time seemed to go—for other men. He remembered
Pedraddyn as an earnest acolyte not much older than Cinrae, but
the man who greeted him at the door of the high priest’s residence
had a streak of gray in his dark hair and the slow, solid walk of a
man secure in his years and his position.

“By the feet and feathers of the holy birds! Can it truly be Nevyn?”

“It is, at that. Do you remember me? Why, it must have been
twenty years ago that I was here.”

“It was, but you made quite an impression on me. It’s a marvel to
see you looking so hale. You must be the best testimonial for your
herbs that ever a man could have, or is it the dweomer that keeps
you so fit?”

“The dweomer, truly, in its own way. It gladdens my heart to see
you, too.”

Pedraddyn ushered him into a spare stone room that held one
table, one bench, a narrow cot, and a vast set of shelves, stacked
with codices and scrolls in leather cases. In the pink sandstone
fireplace a peat fire smoldered to take off the sea chill. When the
high priest clapped his hands, a servant came in the back door. He
was a man in his thirties, dark-haired, and he had the worst scar
that Nevyn had ever seen, thick knots and welts of shiny scar tissue
that ran through his left cheek and clotted at the corner of a mouth
twisted in a perpetual parody of a smile.

“Davyn, get our guest and me some spiced milk. Then you can do
what you’d like until dinner.”

With a silent nod he left by the same door.

“He can’t speak clearly,” Pedraddyn said to Nevyn. “He was an
Eldidd sailor once. We found him washed up on our beach and
bleeding half to death from those wounds. That was about six
years ago now. He begged to stay here with us, and I can’t say I
blamed him for wanting out of the wars. A silent man makes a good
servant for a priest.”

After Davyn brought the milk, priest and sorcerer sat down together
by the fire. Nevyn had a sip of the sweet milk and wished that the
priests of Wmm weren’t forbidden to drink ale and mead.

“With your skill in dweomer, I’m surprised you’d come to us for an
oracle.”

“The oracle I need concerns the entire land of Deverry and Eldidd,
not merely my own doings, Your Holiness. I also came to ask your
aid in a certain peculiar matter. Tell me, does it ache your heart to
see the wars raging and no end in sight?”

“Do you truly need to ask? It would ache the heart of any sane
man.”

“Just so. We who serve the dweomer of light have joined together,
and we have a plan to end the wars, but we can’t do it without the
help of those who serve the gods. I’ve come to beg you to help put
the one true king upon his throne.”

Pedraddyn’s eyes widened like a child’s.

“Who is he?” he whispered.

“I don’t know yet, but you have every important genealogy and
noble bloodline stored away in your records. Once Great Wmm
gives us an omen, surely we can interpret it with the help of the
archives.”

“I see. And once you know his name?”

“Then the dweomer will put him on his throne. Let me tell you my
scheme.”

Pedraddyn listened quietly at first, then flung himself out of his
chair and began pacing back and forth in sheer excitement.

“It could work!” the priest burst out. “With the help of the gods, and
the dweomer behind it, we could do it. The cost, though—by my
most holy lord, a good many men will die in such a war.”

“Will it be any more than are dying already? At least this war will put
an end to it, or so we can hope. What hope do we have now?”

“None, sure enough. On the morrow we’ll consult the god.”

Dinner that night was served in the broch in a vast round room,
smoky from the torches and the peat fire, that served as refectory
and kitchen both. The five priests, their three servants, and
whatever guests there were all ate together at two long tables with
no show of rank. Even the high priest got up to fetch himself more
milk and stew if he wanted them. The quiet talk was of books and
gardening, the religious exercises of the priests and the slow life of
the island. Nevyn envied them. His life would soon revolve around
kings and warfare, politics and death—the very things he’d tried to
leave behind when he chose the dweomer road, as he remarked to
Pedraddyn.

“The man who runs from his Wyrd finds it waiting for him, or so the
proverb goes,” the priest said. “But yours seems to be an
unusually fast runner.”

After a pleasant night in the clean, comfortable guesthouse, Nevyn
woke to a world turned gray by fog. It lay so thick on island and sea
that land and water seemed the same element. In the windless
damp, every word spoken hung in the air like a tuft of sheep’s wool
caught on a bramble. When Cinrae came to fetch him, the lad was
wearing an orange cloak with the hood up against the damp.

“I hope the fog doesn’t bother you, aged sir.”

“It doesn’t, lad, but my thanks for your concern. I’ve got a good
heavy cloak of my own.”

“Good. I like the fogs. They make a man feel safe, somehow.”

Cinrae led the way through the gray-shrouded complex and out to
the gardens, where Pedraddyn was waiting. Although it was only
about a hundred yards away, the top of the broch was lost in fog.
Without speaking they walked up the grassy hill to the small round
temple at the top. Inside was a single plain room of worked stone,
with eight freestanding pillars set around and eight small oil lamps
on the altar. Pedraddyn and Nevyn knelt before the altar while
Cinrae lighted the lamps, an eerie pale glow in the heavy air. It
seemed that the fog had followed them inside and hung over the
altar and the niche behind, where there was a statue of Wmm, or
Ogmios, as he was known in the Dawntime. The god was sitting
cross-legged on a stool, with his right hand raised in benediction
and his left holding a reed pen. As the light flared up, his calm face
seemed to smile at his worshippers. Cinrae knelt down beside
Nevyn and stared at his god in sincere devotion.

Pedraddyn prayed aloud, asking the god to favor Nevyn’s request
and to grant them both wisdom, and he went on at a good length,
his voice echoing through the room. Although the usual worshipper
would have been listening to the priest and little more, Nevyn had
the skills to make a direct link with the force—or the part of the
Innerlands, if you prefer—that Wmm represented. In his mind he
built up a thought form of the god behind his statue, carved it from
the blue light, worked and perfected it until the image lived apart
from his will. Then he used a trick of the mind to force his
imaginings out through his eyes until he saw it standing behind the
altar. Slowly, the god force that Pedraddyn was summoning came
to ensoul it. Nevyn knew he was successful when Cinrae cried out,
a sob of joy, and raised his hand to greet what he saw as a
visitation of the god. Nevyn felt a bit dishonorable, as if he’d tricked
the lad, but on the other hand, the image did represent a truth.

At the end of the prayer, the three of them sat for a long moment of
silence. A bit at a time, Nevyn withdrew the force he’d put into the
actual image and thanked the god for appearing to them. Cinrae’s
devotion kept it alive a little longer, but soon the unstable etheric
substance went its own way, spinning off, swirling, and dissolving
as the god force left its temporary home. Cinrae sobbed once
under his breath, like a child who sees his mother go off to work in
the fields but knows he can’t call her back. Pedraddyn rose and
closed the temple working with a short chant, then clapped his
hands eight times in slow, stately succession.

“We are blessed,” Pedraddyn said. “He has appeared to us.”

Again, Nevyn felt rather shabby. He felt sorry for the priests,
particularly young Cinrae, who would never know the truth about the
object of his devotion, never realize that he could learn to call the
god at will. Yet, as he thought about it, perhaps it was better that
way. How, after all, can one love an objective natural force that can
be summoned in cold blood to ensoul an artificial image? In a way,
there’s little room for love in the dweomer, which is why mankind
needs priests like Cinrae.

Silently, in single file, they left the temple and walked down the far
side of the hill. The fog still lay thick, but through the clinging damp
came the distant boom and echo of wave striking rock. As they
picked their way through a vast meadow of coarse sea grass, the
waves grew louder and louder, until at last they reached the cliff at
the far side of the island. Down below, across a graveled beach,
great rocks rose jagged out of the swirling white surf. The ocean
crashed over them with sheets of spray like birds’ wings, then
flowed all white and foaming through the narrow channels between.

“Behold the voices of the god!” Pedraddyn cried.

The ocean roar answered him with a hundred tongues. As they
slowly made their way down the damp, treacherous stairs cut into
the side of the rocky cliff, the roar and boom of the surf grew so
deafening that it seemed to echo inside Nevyn’s mind as well as in
his ears. At the tide line the three of them knelt on the slimy gravel
and raised their hands palm outward to the oracle. Each great wave
swept in like an omen, spraying over the rocks and swirling with
white foam up almost to their knees.

“O mighty Wmm,” Nevyn called out. “We beg you: guide us in
choosing the one true king of all Deverry. O mighty Wmm, put the
true king on the throne and no other. O mighty Wmm, lend us your
power to tell truth from falsehood.”

One after the other, the waves swept in from the gray, misty ocean
that might have broken on Eldidd’s shore or on that of the
Otherlands, for all they could tell. The voices roared and boomed
incomprehensible answers to Nevyn’s question. All at once, Cinrae
sobbed and rose slowly to his feet, his eyes staring all-unseeing in
deep trance. When he spoke, his thin lad’s tenor had changed into
a voice as deep and hollow as wave on rock.

“Look in the north and west. The lad who will be king has been born
in the north and west. The king of all Deverry and all Eldidd has
been born in a lake among the fishes and the water reeds. He who
will give peace trains for war.”

With a sharp cry Cinrae fainted, falling forward headlong as the
god left him. Nevyn and Pedraddyn raised him up, then carried him
away from the tide line to the tenuous shelter of the foot of the cliff.
Pedraddyn stripped off his own cloak and wrapped it around the
boy.

“Nevyn, he’s the priest you get only once in a hundred years, if that.
He’ll succeed me and surpass me a thousand times. I thank the
god every day for bringing him here.”

“So you should, and for his sake, too. I don’t know what would have
happened to him if he hadn’t found the way of the god.”

“Oh, his family thought he was a bit simpleminded, sure enough.
They brought him here to ask the god’s advice when he was but a
tiny lad, and he’s never left. Sometimes I wonder if there’s some
Westfolk blood in our Cinrae, but of course I couldn’t possibly go
asking his kin a shameful thing like that.” He laid a fatherly hand on
the boy’s cheek. “He’s icy cold. I wish we could get him away from
the damp.”

“Naught easier. Just give him to me.”

Nevyn called on the spirits of the elements, an almost automatic
task there in that rage and vortex of elemental force, and asked
them to support the lad’s weight. With their help, he picked Cinrae
up like a sack of grain and carried him up the steps without even
having to pause for breath. He brought the lad well away from the
edge, then laid him down gently in the cushioning grass while
Pedraddyn stared in utter amazement. In a few minutes Cinrae
tossed his head this way and that, then opened his eyes.

“I can walk soon, Your Holiness,” he whispered.

“When you’re ready, lad, and not before.” Pedraddyn knelt down
beside him. “And someday soon you’ll learn how to control the
force of the god.”

Nevyn walked a few steps away and turned to look over the distant
swirl of fog and ocean. The voices of the god echoed softly in the
distance. North and west, he thought; I would have been wasting
my time if I’d gone to Cerrmor. He had no doubt that the omen was
a true one; reinforced by the ritual and the dramatic physical setup
of the oracle, Cinrae’s raw psychic talent had tapped in deep to the
Deverry racial soul. Born in the midst of reeds and fishes—that
particular phrase bothered him but he was sure that in time
everything would become clear. All in all, he was well pleased.
Only later did he remember that ominous phrase, king of all
Deverry and of all Eldidd, and wonder just what mighty forces he
had set in motion.

That afternoon, while Cinrae slept, Nevyn and Pedraddyn went to
the Chamber of Records, which occupied the entire second floor
of the broch. Aided by another neophyte, they sat at a table by a
window and pored over dusty codex after dusty codex of
genealogies. As they compiled lists of heirs, both direct on the
male line and indirect through the sons of royal women, one name
reappeared three times: Maryn, marked prince of the small
kingdom of Pyrdon, related vaguely to the Eldidd throne, tightly to
the Cantrae claimant through his mother, and most directly indeed
to the Cerrmor line through Prince Cobryn, Dannyn’s son. Realizing
that a man of Dannyn’s line might someday hold the throne of all
Deverry made Nevyn shudder with the dweomer cold. It was just
the sort of irony that the Lords of Wyrd seemed to love.

“This lad interests me.” Nevyn tapped the name with a bone stylus.
“Do you know anything about him?”

“I don’t. Pyrdon’s a long way away. At times I even have trouble
getting correct information for my records.”

“You don’t think the lad might be dead or suchlike?”

“I doubt that. Usually someone will make an effort to tell me of a
thing as important as the death of a marked prince. I only meant
that I’ve never laid eyes on the lad or his mother. I saw his father
once when Casyl was . . . oh, twelve, I’d say. He impressed me as
a nice child, but still, who knows what’s happened since then?”

Since, if their plan was to succeed, they would need the help of at
least one powerful priest of Bel, Nevyn headed directly back to
Deverry rather than going hundreds of miles out of his way to
Pyrdon. He gave the job of looking over young Prince Maryn to
Aderyn, who was roaming with his alar near the border of the
kingdom. Nevyn had just crossed into Deverry proper when Aderyn
contacted him through his campfire.

“I think we’ve found our claimant.” Aderyn’s image was smiling, but
in a thoughtful sort of way. “Pyrdon’s a harsh place, but it’s the right
sort of harshness, the kind that keeps a man mindful that he needs
other people to survive. I was most impressed with King Casyl; he
has an honor that’s rare even in the best of times. The young
prince seems bright beyond his years, but he’s only five, so it’s a
bit early to tell how he’s going to turn out. He seems healthy,
though. It would be a pity if he died in childhood.”

“True-spoken, but then Casyl might have another son or two yet. I
hate storing all my mead in one skin.”

“So do I, but we’ve got to. The whole problem is that we’ve got too
beastly many would-be kings.”

“Just so. What about the omens?”

“They couldn’t be more right. Dun Drwloc is Casyl’s primary
residence, and that’s where the young prince was born. It’s a
fortified island, right out in the middle of a lake.”

“Excellent! My thanks for your help. I’m on my way to Lughcarn. I
remember the high priest of Bel there as being a decent,
honorable man—well, if he hasn’t up and died on me, anyway.”

Since it was far enough from the Cerrmor border to be spared the
worst ravages of war, Lughcarn was still prosperous, and the
biggest city left in Deverry. The center of the iron workings, it was
continually dusted with fine dark ash from its smelters, forges, and
of course the big beehive ovens where wood was turned into
charcoal. In the still summer air, the haze hung over the city and
turned the sky yellow. Nevyn made his way to the center of town,
where the temple of Bel stood among soot-dusted ancient oaks.
He was well known there, and neophytes came running to take his
horse and mule as soon as he entered the sacred grove. Much to
his relief, Olaedd the high priest was very much alive, though
severely troubled by pains in his joints. A neophyte ushered Nevyn
into Olaedd’s chamber, which was bare except for a narrow, hard
pallet on the floor and one chair.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t rise, Nevyn. The pain in my back is bad
today.”

“You’ve got to get yourself a proper bed. It doesn’t have to be soft
or some such sinful thing; you’ve just got to get out of the draft.”

“I’ll consider it, then.”

The neophyte brought Nevyn a low stool, then took himself away.
Nevyn launched straight into his plans. The priesthood of Bel was
in the perfect position to interpret oracles and omens in the
“correct” way, simply because so many men came to them with
puzzling dreams or events. When the time came, too, they would
be the ones to proclaim the new king and marry him to the
sovereignty of the kingdom.

“And I’ve no doubt he’ll reward the temples once he’s gained the
throne,” Nevyn finished up.

“No doubt, oh no doubt, but why are you coming to me instead of
the high priest of the Holy City?”

“I was recently there. I heard Gwergovyn is the new high priest.”

“Um. He is, of course, my superior, no matter what I may think of
him.”

For a moment they considered each other, each wondering just
how much could be said aloud. Since he was running the lesser
risk, Nevyn spoke first.

“I realize that traditionally the priesthood of Deverry has always
claimed supremacy, but as I remember, anyway, it’s only
tradition—not law—that gives them their place.”

“True enough.” Olaedd’s dark eyes blinked once. “So it is, truly.”

“That tradition might be badly shaken if the priesthood there
supports the wrong claimant to the throne.”

“While Lughcarn supports the right one?” Olaedd put the tips of his
fingers together and studied his arched hands for a moment “In
just an eightnight there’ll be a convocation of the northern temples
here in Lughcarn.”

“Won’t the Dun Deverry priesthood send an envoy?”

“Of course, but there are always ways for a few trustworthy men to
talk privately. Ride back when the convocation’s over. We’ll speak
of this matter again.”

Nevyn went to a small village about ten miles north of the city and
camped in a farmer’s barn on the pretense of gathering herbs in
the neighborhood. Since not only the farmer in question but the
whole village was glad to have an herbman nearby, he was soon
well known. During his second week there, the miller’s little
daughter came running to tell him that a marvel had happened: one
of the goats had given birth to a two-headed kid. Mostly because
she expected him to, Nevyn went to look and found most of the
village crowded round the pen. Weighed down by its deformity, the
kid couldn’t even stand, while its mother bleated in a hopeless sort
of way even as she licked it clean.

“It doubtless won’t live the day,” Nevyn remarked to the miller.

“Couldn’t agree more. Do you think someone bewitched my
goats?”

“I don’t.” Nevyn was about to launch into a long discussion of the
interrelationships of the four humors in animals when he got a
much better idea. “The gods sent it as an omen, I’ll wager. Here,
can an animal with two heads live? Of course not. So, then, can a
kingdom with two kings do much better?”

The crowd nodded sagely at this display of erudition.

“I’ll wager you’re right,” the miller said, “I’ll send my eldest lad to
the local priest about this.”

“Do that. He’ll find it interesting, I’m sure.”

When he returned to Lughcarn, Nevyn found that indeed the news
of the two-headed goat had preceded him. As soon as Olaedd and
he were alone, the priest mentioned it.

“Now, even though you were the one to interpret the omen for the
village, I’m sure Great Bel sent it. Your interpretation is the same
as I’d give, too. If the civil wars go on much longer, there won’t be
any kingdom to fight over, just a pack of minor lords each
squabbling over his borders, We discussed this at length, during
the convocation. After all, if there’s no king, who will protect the
temples?”

“Just so.”

Olaedd looked absently away for a long moment, and even when
he spoke, he didn’t look directly at Nevyn.

“There was some small discussion of Gwergovyn. It seems that
there are some who are less than pleased with his presidency over
the Holy City.”

“Ah. I wondered if that might be the case.”

“There are some good reasons for this dissatisfaction, at least if
certain rumors are to be believed.” Again the long pause. “I do not
think that they need concern you. Let me only say that I found them
most distressing.”

“I have perfect faith in Your Holiness’s judgment.”

“My thanks. You may, however, count on the northern temples for
any aid we can render you. Ah, at times I feel so weary! We’re
talking of a plan that will take many years, but who better to start a
plan than old men who have the wisdom to pick the young men to
finish it?”

“Just so. I take it none of the priesthood in the Holy City will be
consulted?”

Olaedd smiled, answering the question the only way such things
can be answered: by silence.

Late in the autumn, when the trees stood stark beside the road and
the morning sky smelled of snow, Nevyn returned to Brin Toraedic.
Since the caves were musty and damp from being shut up so long,
he lit fires and sent the air elementals sweeping through the
chambers to cleanse the fetid air, then took his mule and went
down to the village to buy food. When he rode in, everyone ran
over to greet him. They all knew what his real work was and were
proud to have something that no other village did, or at least, none
that they knew of: their own local sorcerer. While he packed up
some cheese, a ham, and barley for porridge, Nevyn also heard
the summer’s worth of gossip, much of which concerned Belyan,
big with a bastard child and not telling a soul who the father was.
When Nevyn took his stock over to the blacksmith’s to be reshod,
the smith’s wife, Ygraena, invited him in for a drop of ale.

“Have you seen our Belyan yet?” she remarked, ever so casually.

“I knew about the child before I left. I’ll be going out to the farm to
buy dried apples, so I’ll see how she fares then.”

“I’ve no doubt she’ll have an easy time of it. I’ll admit to being ever
so envious of the way she has hers, just like a cat.” She hesitated,
her eyes as shrewd as ever Olaedd’s were. “Here, good Nevyn,
some people are saying that she got this child from one of your
spirits.”

When he laughed so hard that he choked on his ale, Ygraena
looked bitterly disappointed: such a lovely theory, and all exploded.

“I assure you that the lad was real flesh and blood, and hot enough
blood at that, judging from what’s happened to Bell. If she’s
keeping her own counsel about it, well, she always was a close-
mouthed lass.”

Belyan had the baby just four days later. Nevyn was sweeping out
his caves when the oldest lad came running to tell him that Mam
was starting to have the new baby. By the time he packed a few
herbs and rode down, Ygraena’s prediction had come true: Bell’s
new son was already born, and an easy time he had coming, too.
While the midwife washed the babe and got Belyan comfortable,
Nevyn and Bannyc sat by the fire.

“And how do you feel about this new cub in the litter?” Nevyn said.

“Well, I wish she would have married some lad if she wanted a
babe that bad, but Bell was always too headstrong for me to
handle. He’s healthy, the midwife says, and so he’s welcome
enough. You can always use another pair of hands around a farm.”

With a deep heave of a sigh, Bannyc went out to tend his goats.
Nevyn stretched his feet out to the warmth of the fire and thought
of Maddyn. Quickly enough his image grew in the fire, a tiny figure
at first, then swelling until Nevyn could comfortably see the entire
scene around him. Maddyn was sitting in a dirty tavern room with
about a dozen other men, all of them drinking hard and laughing. At
their belts each had a dagger with an identical pommel decorated
with three silver balls. When one of the men idly drew his to gouge
a splinter out of the table, Nevyn could see that it was some
peculiar metal, a kind of silver, he thought, but the vision was not
sharp or detailed enough for him to be sure. What did seem
obvious was that Maddyn had found himself a place in a mercenary
troop. Nevyn’s first thought was pity; then it occurred to him that
such a troop, one with no fixed loyalties, might be very useful for
the work he had ahead. He made a mental note to keep better
track of Maddyn in the future.

Later, Nevyn went in to see Belyan, who was sitting up in bed with
the babe at her breast. A big baby, easily eight pounds, Daumyr
had a soft crown of fine blond hair, and he was sucking eagerly
with an occasional bird chirp of satisfaction.

“I’ll be getting the true milk soon,” Belyan said. ‘The way this hungry
little beast is nursing.”

“No doubt. Do you miss his father?”

Belyan considered while she changed the babe to her other
breast.

“A bit,” she said at last. “What with all I had to do around the farm, I
hardly thought of him all summer, but now that winter’s almost here,
I find myself remembering him. I hope he’s safe and well,
wherever he is. It’s better to wonder where he is than to go visit his
grave.”

“It is, at that, truly.”

With a smile, Belyan gently stroked the baby’s hair.

“He’s a bit different than my other lads were when they were born,
and he’ll doubtless look different, with Maddyn’s curly hair and all,
but in time, he’ll grow to be like us. It’s a bit like needlework, having
a babe. You’ve got your cloth, and you’ve got your colors of thread,
but it’s up to you how the pattern grows.”

Nevyn suddenly smiled. She’d just handed him the missing piece
of his plan. What better way to have a true and noble king than to
raise the prince? Maryn was still young and malleable; he needed
tutors, and he would respond to the proper influence. One of us
can find a way into the court, Nevyn thought; we’ll make sure the lad
grows up well while we lay the rest of the groundwork.

That night, Nevyn walked on the hill just as the full moon was at her
zenith. Clouds came in from the north, casting moving shadows
across the sleeping countryside. For too long now, darker
shadows had killed all joy in Deverry. Nevyn smiled to himself.
Deep in his heart, he saw the coming peace and the victory of the
light.




THREE

The year 837. Olaedd the high priest died in the spring. Retyc of
Hendyr was appointed high priest by the northern conclave. In the
summer a little lad with falling sickness was brought to the temple.
He had a seizure at Retyc’s feet, and cried out that the king was
coming from the west. When he awakened, he repeated that the
king was in the west, but he could give no reason why he said it.
Retyc declared the speaking a true one . . .

—The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn

Up on the dais of the great hall, Ogretoryc, king of all Eldidd and
what little of Deverry he could hold with his army, was sitting in his
high-backed carved chair. Behind him hung a finely worked
tapestry depicting Epona riding with her retinue of godlets in the
Otherlands. To either side of the tapestry were long banners in
blue and silver cloth, with the Dragon of Eldidd appliqued in green.
At the king’s feet lay a blue and green carpet, covering a floor of
inlaid slate. His bard sat nearby; his picked guard stood behind
him; two pages waited with a golden goblet and a pitcher of mead.
The king, however, was asleep, slumped to one side and snoring,
a line of drool running from his toothless mouth down his wrinkled,
flabby chin. Out in the circular expanse of the hall, the noble lords,
their warbands, and the king’s own men went on with their feasting
and tried to ignore their liege lord.

Because they were mercenaries, the silver daggers were seated in
the back and to one side of the hall, where they caught the drafts
from the door and the smoke from the fire, but by leaning back on
his bench, Maddyn could keep an eye on the dais and the sleeping
king. In only a few minutes, Prince Cadlew, heir to the throne,
mounted the dais and hesitantly went over to his father. A lean
man, his face positively gaunt, Cadlew was tight-muscled and hard
from long years in the saddle. His raven-dark hair was heavily
streaked with gray, and his cornflower-blue eyes were webbed with
crow’s-foot wrinkles, yet he could still swing a sword with the best
of them. Cadlew caught the king’s arm and shook him awake.
Surrounded by guards, with the pages trailing uncertainly behind,
the prince led his father away. The entire hall sighed in relief.
Caradoc leaned over to whisper to Maddyn.

“I’ll wager there’s plenty of men who’d rather see our prince sitting
on that fancy chair.”

“It’d be a safe wager, sure enough. Here, I’ve been stewing with
curiosity. What did the prince say when he called you to his
chamber this afternoon?”

“Offered to take us into his warband. I turned him down.”

“You what?!”

“Turned him down.” Caradoc paused for a calm sip of mead.
“Thanked him for the honor, mind, but I’d rather negotiate our
wages summer to summer than swear fealty.”

“Ah, curse you to the ninth hell!”

“Listen, Maddo. I know it sounds splendid to think of being
honorable men again and all that, but a silver dagger’s got to be
free to change sides if he doesn’t want to hang after a defeat.”

“Well, true-spoken. We’ve changed sides too often before to be
treated honorably, no matter what a prince says about us.”

“Just that. Not a word of this to the others, mind.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. You should know that we’d all follow you
to the death.”

Caradoc looked away, tears in his eyes. Maddyn was too
embarrassed to do more than leave him his silence.

While he sipped his mead, Maddyn considered the troop, seventy-
five strong, and everyone of them a blood-besotted man who
fought like a demon from hell. It had taken Caradoc three years,
but he’d scraped and scrounged and bargained until he had a
troop so valuable that the prince would consider taking them into
his own warband. Every one of them, too, had one of Otho’s
mysterious daggers at his belt. Some of the best smiths in the
king’s court had gone down on their knees to beg the dwarf for the
secret of that metal, but not even the offer of whole sacks of gold
coins and jewels would have softened Otho’s stance. Once he had
remarked to Maddyn that someday, when he found a deserving
lad, he’d pass the secret on, but so far, no such paragon of smithly
virtue had ever appeared.

After a hard summer’s fighting, the men of Eldidd, paid and
pledged alike, were back in winter quarters in the king’s palace at
Abernaudd. They’d fought late, that autumn, skirmishing in the hills
with Cerrmor troops, or riding raids up to the borders of Pyrdon,
which the people of Eldidd still insisted on calling a rebellious
province. The rumors were going round that in the spring they’d
make a proper attack on Pyrdon, but those rumors went round
every winter. The truth was that Eldidd couldn’t afford to drain off
men and supplies to conquer Pyrdon when it had two bigger
enemies at its eastern borders. Maddyn frankly didn’t care where
they rode in the spring. All that mattered was that for the winter
they’d be well fed and warm.

To avoid drunken brawls between his men and the king’s, Caradoc
led the silver daggers back to their own barracks before the great
feast was truly over. As they crossed the ward, Maddyn lingered to
walk with Caudyr, whose clubfoot slowed him down. With the
clatter of hooves and a jingle of tack, a squad of the king’s
personal guard came through the gates. Back from a cold, long
patrol, they were hungry and eager to get to the warm feast inside.
Even though there was plenty of room to pass, they started cursing
and yelling at Maddyn and Caudyr to move aside. They were both
willing, but Caudyr had no choice but to lurch slowly along. One of
the horsemen leaned over in his saddle.

“Move your cursed ass, rabbit! They should have drowned a lame
runt like you at birth.”

When most of the squad laughed, Maddyn swirled around,
reaching for his sword, but Caudyr grabbed his arm.

“It’s not worth it. I’m used to being the butt of a jest.”

As they went on, Caudyr tried to hurry.

“Look at him hop!” called another guardsman. “You were right
enough about the rabbits.”

At that, the squad leader, who’d drifted on ahead, turned his horse
and trotted back.

“Hold your tongues, you bastards!” It was young Owaen, and he
was furious. “Who are you to mock a man for a trouble that the
gods gave him?”

“Oh, listen to you, lad!”

Like a bow shot, Owaen was out of his saddle. He ran over to the
guardsman and grabbed, pulling him down and dumping him on
the cobbles before the startled fellow could react. With an oath, the
man leapt up and swung at him, but Owaen dropped him with one
punch. The laughter and catcalls abruptly stopped.

“I don’t want to hear anyone else mock a man for a trouble he can’t
help.”

Except for the nervous horses, stamping restless hooves, the ward
was dead silent. Puzzled as much as pleased, Maddyn kept his
eyes on Owaen, who was barely seventeen, for all that he’d been
riding to war for the past three years. Normally he was the most
arrogant man Maddyn had ever met. Wearing the Eldidd dragons
on his shirt wasn’t enough for Owaen, who had his own device of a
striking falcon marked on his shirt, his dagger, his saddle—on
every piece of gear he owned, from the look of it. He was also the
best swordsman in the guard, if not the entire kingdom, and his
fellow riders knew it. When the squad dismounted, it was only to
pick up the unconscious man and sling him over his saddle to carry
him away. With a small, friendly nod in Caudyr’s direction, Owaen
followed them.

“Now that’s a puzzle and a half,” Caudyr said. “Owaen’s the last
man I ever thought would do such a thing.”

“No more did I. I know that Caradoc thinks highly of the lad. Maybe
he’s right, after all.”

In the barracks a couple of the men were building a fire in the
stone hearth. Others sat on the line of bunks and talked of dice
games. Pale, mousy Argyn, who was one of the most cold-
blooded and vicious killers in the warband, was already asleep, but
for all that he was snoring like a summer storm, no one disturbed
him to shut him up. The long room smelled of sweat, woodsmoke,
and horses, especially of horses, since the troop’s mounts were
stabled directly below the slatted floor. To Maddyn, it was a
comfortable kind of smell that said home to him after all these
years of riding in one warband or another. He sat down on his bunk
and took his harp out of its padded leather bag.

“Here, Maddo!” Aethan called out. “For the love of every god in the
Otherlands, don’t sing that same blasted song about King Bran’s
cattle raid, will you?”

“Ah, hold your tongue. I’m trying to learn it.”

“And don’t we all know it?” Caradoc broke in. “I’m as sick as I can
be of you missing that stanza in the middle and going back over it.”

“As the captain orders. But don’t be taking my head off, then, for
never knowing a new song.”

In sheer annoyance he put the harp away and stomped out of tne
barracks, followed by a small crowd of disappointed Wildfolk, who
tugged at his sleeve and his brigga leg to try to get him to go back
and sing. When he ignored them, they disappeared, a few at a
time, but all of them with reproachful looks on their tiny faces. He
went straight to the kitchen hut, where there was a scullery lass,
Clwna, who liked him well enough to sneak out to the hayloft with
him every now and then. By his reckoning, she should have been
done with her work. The kitchen hut’s door was open to let a
cheerful spill of light fall across the cobbles, and clustered around
it were the king’s hunting dogs, waiting hopefully for scraps.
Maddyn kicked his way through the pack and stood in the doorway.
The scullery boys were washing the last of the kettles at the hearth,
and the cook herself, a gray-haired, woman with enormous,
muscular arms, was perched on a tall stool and eating her own
dinner out of a wooden bowl.

“I know what you’re after, silver dagger, Clwna’s gone already, and
no doubt with another of you lads.”

“No doubt. With my lady’s gracious permission, I’ll wait here for a
bit to see if she comes back.”

The cook snorted and pushed a strand of hair back from her
forehead with her little finger.

“You silver daggers are a strange lot. Most men would be howling
with, rage if their wench slipped out with another lad.”

“We share what we get when we can get it. I’m just glad that
Clwna’s a sensible lass.”

“Sensible, hah! If you call it sensible to get yourself known as one
of the silver daggers’ women. I’m fair minded to beat some sense
into the lass, I am.”

“Oh, now here! How could, you be so cruel to deny us a bit of
comfort, when we’re fighting for the very honor of Eldidd?”

“Listen to him!” The cook rolled her eyes heavenward to invoke the
gods. “Out of my kitchen, bard! You’re giving the scullery lads
wrong ideas.”

Maddyn made her a mocking bow and left, shoving his way through
the dogs. As he crossed the ward, it occurred to him that the entire
troop had been in the barracks when he’d left it. While he was
willing to share Clwna with other silver daggers, the thought of
sharing her with an outsider griped his soul. He ducked inside the
back door of the great hall and snagged himself a torch from one
of the sconces, then searched through the ward with a growing
sense of righteous irritation. In the aftermath of the feast there
were lots of people about: servants bringing firewood and barrels
of ale, glutted riders strolling slowly back to barracks or privy,
serving lasses intent on flirtations of their own or running similar
errands for their noble mistresses. About halfway to the stables he
saw his prey—Clwna walking along arm in arm with one of the
king’s guard. From the disarray of her dresses and the bit of straw
in her hair, Maddyn knew that his suspicions were justified. Clwna
herself settled any lingering doubt by screaming the moment she
saw him.

“So!” Maddyn held the torch up like a householder apprehending a
thief. “And what’s all this, lass?”

Clwna made a miserable little shriek and stuffed her knuckles into
her mouth. With his hand on his sword hilt, Owaen stepped forward
into the pool of light. Maddyn realized that the situation could easily
go beyond irritation to danger.

“What’s it to you, you little dog?” Owaen snapped. “The lady
happens to prefer a real man instead of a bondsman with a sword.”

It took every scrap of will that Maddyn possessed to stop himself
from hitting Owaen in the face with the flaming torch. In his rage he
was only dimly aware that they were gathering a crowd, but he did
hear Clwna nattering on and on to some sympathetic listener.
Owaen stood smiling at him, his mouth a twist of utter smugness.

“Well, come on, old man,” he said at last. “Don’t you have a word
to say to me?”

“Oh, I’ll have plenty of words, little lad. You forget that you’re talking
to a bard. I haven’t made a good flyting song in a long, long time.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Owaen’s voice was a childlike howl of
indignation. “That’s not fair!”

At that the ring of onlookers burst out laughing; for all his
swordcraft, he looked such an outraged boy standing there that
Maddyn had to chuckle himself, thinking that in truth it hardly
mattered who tumbled Clwna around in the hay. He was just about
to say something conciliatory to the lad when Owaen, his face
blushing red, unbuckled his sword belt and threw it onto the
cobbles.

“Well and good, then, bard!” he snarled. “It’s breaking geis to draw
on you, but hand that torch to someone, and I’ll grind your face in
the stones for you!”

“Oh, for the sake of every god in the sky, Owaen,” Maddyn said
wearily. “She’s hardly worth—”

Owaen swung at him, an open-handed slap that he dodged barely
in time. At that there were yells, and a couple of men in the crowd
leaped forward and grabbed the lad. Howling and swearing, he
tried to break free, but they dragged him back and held him. By the
blazons on their shirts Maddyn could tell that they were guardsmen,
too. The reason for this unexpected civility pushed his way through
the onlookers.

“Now, what’s all this?” said Wevryl, captain of the king’s guard.
“Owaen, by the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell! I swear that
Trouble was your dam and Twice Trouble your grandam! What was
he doing to you, bard?”

“Naught, truly, but making a fool of himself.”

“My apologies!” Clwna broke in with a wail. “I never meant to cause
trouble, Maddo.” She paused for a couple of moist sobs. “Truly I
didn’t.”

“Oh, over a lass, was it?” The captain looked profoundly annoyed.
“The same tedious old horse dung, is it? Ye gods, it’s only fall!
What are you lads going to be like when the winter sets in, eh?
Very well, bard. Take the lass away, will you? Owaen, as for you,
it’ll be a couple of lashes out in the ward tomorrow morn. I’ll not be
having trouble over a kitchen slut.”

Owaen’s face drained dead white. In the crowd, a couple of men
snickered.

“Oh, here, Captain,” Maddyn said. “If you’re flogging him for my
sake, there’s no need.”

“Not for your sake—for the sake of peace in the dun. You might
pass that on to that troop you ride with, too. I won’t tolerate this sort
of fighting. Save the bloodlust for spring and our enemies.”

In the morning, when they dragged Owaen out to the ward for his
lashes, Maddyn refused to go watch, although most of the other
silver daggers and half the dun did. It was entertainment of a sort.
With his blue sprite and a couple of gnomes for company, he
wandered around to the back of the stables and lounged on a bale
of straw in the warm sun. Caradoc eventually found him there.

“Is it over?” Maddyn said.

“It is. Wevryl tells me that Owaen’s been naught but trouble ever
since he rode his first battle, bragging and swaggering around, so
he decided it was time to show the lad his place. Aches my heart.
Look, they put this young hothead in the king’s guard because he’s
the best swordsman they’ve ever seen, and so what does he do?
Sit around most of the year and watch the old king sleep. No
wonder he’s as hot as summer tinder. He’d be better off in the
silver daggers.”

“You keep saying that. Well, if he keeps on being so cursed
arrogant, you might have your chance to recruit him yet.”

They always say that bards have a touch of prophecy. For close to
a week, Maddyn saw no sign of Owaen, not even in the great hall at
meals. He was apparently keeping strictly to himself and letting his
wounds heal, and as painful as two stripes were, it would be the
shame that would be paining him the more, Maddyn assumed.
Since every silver dagger knew what shame tasted like, when
Owaen did reappear, they went out of their way to treat him as if
nothing had happened. The young handpicked riders in the king’s
guard had no such hard-earned compassion. When a stiff-backed
Owaen took his place at table for the first time, he was greeted with
a chorus of catcalls and a couple of truly vicious remarks about
whipped dogs and kennels. Since Wevryl was nowhere in sight,
Caradoc stood on his position as a captain and went over and
broke it up. His face bright red, Owaen gulped ale from his tankard
and stared down at the tabletop.

When Caradoc came back, he sat down next to Maddyn.

“Little pusboils,” the captain remarked. “Now that’s a truly stupid
way to treat a man when your life might depend on him someday in
a scrap.”

“Even stupider when he’s a man who could cut you into pieces
without half trying.”

“Now that, alas, is true-spoken.”

Later that morning Maddyn was grooming his horse in front of the
stable when Clwna, all nervous smile and sidelong glance, came
sidling up to him. If she hadn’t been so thin and pale, she would
have been a lovely lass, but as it was, her blond hair always
smelled of roast meat and there was always grease under her
fingernails.

“Have you forgiven me yet, Maddo?”

“Oh, easily. Going to meet me out in the hayloft tonight?”

She giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand like a court lady, a
gesture that was somehow pathetic.

“Here, I’ll be riding to town today,” Maddyn said. “I’ll buy you some
ribands from the tailor. What colors would you like?”

“Blue and green, and my thanks. You’re so sweet, Maddo. I like
you the best of anybody.”

“Oh huh! And how many of the lads do you say that to?”

“Only you. And maybe Aethan but only sometimes. Sometimes he
frightens me.” Unconsciously she brought her hand to her throat.
“Sometimes he looks at me, and I think he’s going to hit me, but
then he only says some mean thing and walks away.”

“When he does that, he’s thinking of another woman, lass, not of
you. Stay away from him when he’s in that mood.”

“I will, then.” She went suddenly tense, looking over his shoulder.
“Oh ye gods!”

Maddyn turned to see a gaggle of guardsmen strolling their way
with Owaen among them. At the sight of Clwna, they began
nudging each other and snickering.

“There’s the fair maiden, Owaen. Oh, she doesn’t look half so tasty
in the daylight. Was she worth it, Owaen? Was she? As hot as
Bardek spices, then.”

Owaen walked away fast, his head up high, his mouth set tight.
Clwna burst out weeping and ran. Maddyn thought of following her,
then decided that she’d have to learn her lessons, too.

That night the first of the long slashing winter rains came in from
the Southern Sea. Penned inside with no more amusements than
dice and ale, the king’s guard kept up their relentless teasing. It
seemed to Maddyn that no matter when he saw Owaen, the lad
was being mocked by his fellows. There were jests about Clwna,
jests about whipping dogs into shape, jests about a man stupid
enough to challenge a bard—on and on, over and over, and each
more tired and feeble than the last. Maddyn could only assume that
Owaen’s arrogance had irked his fellow guardsmen for years;
doubtless they envied him, too. Maddyn also noticed Caradoc
keeping a careful eye on the situation. Often the captain stepped in
when the teasing turned vicious and stopped it.

Finally, on the fourth solid day of rain, things came to a head. After
dinner that night, Caradoc lingered in the great hall and kept
Maddyn there with him after the rest of the silver daggers went to
the barracks. They collared a couple of tankards of dark ale from a
serving lass and moved to a table in the curve of the wall, where
they were barely noticeable in the shadows but had a good view of
Owaen, who was sitting at the end of a table of guardsmen.

“Tomorrow this demon-get storm will blow over,” Caradoc
remarked. “I hope that someone else does somewhat stupid and
soon. Give them a new butt for their jokes.”

They lounged there for about half an hour while the prince’s bard
sang manfully over the laughter and talk. Because of all the noise,
Maddyn never heard what started the fight. All at once, Owaen and
another lad were on their feet and yelling at each other in
inarticulate rage. Caradoc leapt up and ran, but too late. The other
lad grabbed his sword and drew. Maddyn hardly saw Owaen move.
There was a flash of steel in torchlight; his opponent staggered
back, blood running down his face. Caradoc caught him by the
shoulders and laid him down in the straw just as Maddyn reached
them. The hall broke out in screaming and shouting. Owaen threw
his bloody sword down on the table and stared, his mouth open in
shock. When men grabbed him from behind, he went limp in their
hands. Maddyn knelt beside Caradoc and the bleeding victim.

“How badly is he cut?”

“Cut? He’s dead.”

Half disbelieving it, Maddyn stared at the corpse on the floor.
Owaen had struck twice in that blur of motion, slashing the lad’s
face half open, then catching his throat on the backswing. Shouting
and swearing, men clustered round; Caradoc and Maddyn left the
corpse to them and worked their way free of the mob just in time to
see the guard marching Owaen out of the hall. The lad was
weeping.

“Ah, horseshit!” Caradoc growled. “He’s just too blasted good with
that blade. I could have stopped it in time if it’d been anyone else.
Ah, horseshit!”

“And a stinking heap of it. What’ll you wager he didn’t even realize
he’d killed the lad until he heard you say it?”

Caradoc muttered an inaudible oath under his breath, then went in
search of their tankards.

For a long hour, Maddyn and Caradoc waited in the nervous crowd
for news of Prince Cadlew’s judgment. Finally two pages, young
eyes bright with excitement, came running in to announce that the
Prince was going to have Owaen hanged on the morrow. Since the
other lad had drawn first, no one thought the sentence just, but no
one could argue with the prince, either. The very same lads who’d
driven Owaen to his fit of temper spoke contritely and defended
him to everyone else, while serving lasses wept and said now
handsome he was to die so young. Caradoc drank steadily, then
suddenly slammed his tankard onto the table.

“I’m not going to stand for it! What do you think, Maddo? Shall I pull
the lad’s neck out of the noose?”

“By all means, but how?”

“Just watch. Find me one of those wretched pages.”

Suitably bribed, a page was quite willing to take the prince a
message asking for an audience. After some minutes’ wait, the
boy returned and took them to one of the royal reception
chambers, a sumptuous room with carved oak furniture, thick
Bardek carpets in blue and green, and real glass in the windows.
Cadlew was standing by the hearth with a golden goblet of mead in
his hand. When Maddyn and Caradoc knelt at his feet, he nodded
pleasantly to them.

“Rise. You have our leave to speak.”

“My humble thanks, Your Highness,” Caradoc said. “A long time
ago, in the middle of summer, you made me promise of a boon,
whenever I should ask for it.”

“And so I did. I remember the charge you led very well indeed. I’ve
plenty of fine horses for a reward, or a jeweled sheath, perhaps,
for that dagger you carry. Or here, there are those new swords
from Bardek. The steel is particularly fine.”

“Well, my liege, I want somewhat of far less value than that, and
cursed if I don’t think I’m daft for wasting a boon on it.”

“Indeed?” The prince smiled briefly. “It’s pleasant to see that even
silver daggers have whims. Ask away.”

“Then, my liege, give me young Owaen’s life. Don’t hang the lad.”

Honestly startled, the prince raised his goblet and had a small sip,
then made a courtly, indifferent shrug.

“Done, then, on one condition: you take him into your warband and
out of mine. I want no more of this trouble.”

“My humble thanks, Your Highness. Don’t worry your royal heart. I’ll
beat the lad into shape sooner or later.”

“I’ve no doubt, Captain, that you could beat the Lord of Hell into
shape, and sooner rather than later. Let me summon a guard. I’ve
no idea where they put the lad.”

Guards with torches took Maddyn and Caradoc around to the back
of the ward, where a cluster of round, stone storage sheds stood
by the outer wall. Another guard was lounging against a tiny shed
with no windows and an iron-barred door. At the news, he stepped
aside gladly.

“Didn’t truly seem fair. Glad you changed our liege’s mind,
Captain.”

With a shrug, Caradoc lifted the bar and opened the door. Inside
Owaen was sitting on a pile of dirty straw, his arms clasped behind
his knees, his face stained with tears. At the sight of them he
scrambled to his feet and stood at stiff attention, head held high.

“Come to hang me already?” Owaen’s voice was perfectly level.
“I’ll be glad to have it over and done with.”

“You’re not going to hang at all, you young dolt,” Caradoc said.
“I’ve bought your pardon. Now get out here.”

Staring at the captain all the while, Owaen took a few slow, cautious
steps to the door, as if he were afraid of waking himself from this
wonderful dream. Caradoc grabbed his arm with one hand and
slapped him across the face with the other.

“That’s for forgetting you were in the king’s hall.” Caradoc slapped
him again, even harder. “And that’s for striking twice. One more slip
like this, and I’ll slit your throat, not twist it. Understand me?

“I do.” Owaen could barely whisper; doubtless his mouth was
stinging from the slap. “But why pardon me?”

“I want you in my troop. You’ll have a short enough life anyway as a
silver dagger.”

Owaen nodded, trembling, turning to stare at the ward as if it were
the most beautiful sight in the world. He rode close enough to the
Otherlands, Maddyn thought, and it wouldn’t have been a pretty way
to die.

“Now listen,” Caradoc went on. “I gave up a chance at one of those
Bardek blades for you, so you’d blasted well better fight like a son
of a bitch and earn your hire. Now come along. I’ll send someone
else to get your gear from the guardsmen’s barracks. I don’t want
your behind anywhere near your old companions.”

Owaen nodded again, still trembling; words were beyond him,
apparently. Maddyn laid a hand on his shoulder.

“There isn’t a man in the troop who hasn’t disgraced himself as
badly as you have,” Maddyn said. “Lots of us are a cursed sight
worse. Come along, lad. You’re better off among your own kind.”

Owaen started to laugh, a low hysterical chuckle, and he kept it up
all the way across the ward to the barracks.

The sky was low and slate gray, and a chill wind rustled in the
branches of the leafless trees that stood like sentinels on the
shores of the wide artificial lake. A stone causeway ran about half a
mile through the rippled gray water to the island where the dun
stood, the palace of Casyl, king of Pyrdon. By rising in his stirrups
Nevyn could just see the high broch above the stone walls. He
paused his horse and reined his pack mule up beside it while he
studied the place that, if all went well, would be his home for some
years ahead. Drwloc certainly fitted the description of the oracle of
Wmm. All around the island clustered stands of water reeds, and
at the sandy landing were little leather coracles drawn up against
the coming storm.

He rode on to the end of the causeway, where two guards were
lounging against the gate. At the sight of him, they straightened up
and came to attention. Much to his annoyance, Nevyn was dressed
the part of an important personage in brand-new clothes, a pair of
fine gray brigga, a shirt of the whitest linen, a dark blue cloak with a
splendid jeweled ring brooch to clasp it. He was no longer an
herbman, but a wandering scholar, with letters of introduction from
several very important priests of several major gods.

“Good morrow, sir,” a guard said with a bow. “May I ask your
business in the palace?”

“My name is Nevyn, and I’ve been sent by Retyc, high priest of Bel
in Lughcarn, to inquire about a position as tutor for the young
prince.”

At that, both guards bowed.

“Of course, sir. We were told that the king expected you. Ride on,
but please watch the footing. We’ve got some slippery
spots—moss and suchlike.”

For safety’s sake, Nevyn dismounted and led his beasts along the
causeway. Just wide enough for four horses abreast, it was a
splendid bit of defensive planning; ten good men could hold it
against an army all day if they had to, but then Pyrdon’s freedom
had been won and held by military genius and little else. The
causeway ended on a tiny strip of bare ground before the iron-
bound double gates of the dun itself. There, more guards greeted
Nevyn and ushered him into the cobbled ward, which was
crammed with storage sheds, stables and barracks. It was plain
that the dun was organized with a long siege in mind. Pages came
to take his horse and mule, and another lad escorted him into the
tall broch itself.

Although the royal crest of a rearing stallion was stamped or
carved everywhere, on the chairs, on the hearth, on the red-and-
silver banners on the walls, the furnishings were sparse and made
of roughly cut dark wood. At the table of honor the king himself was
sitting in an ordinary low, half-round chair and drinking ale from a
plain pewter tankard. At thirty-one, Casyl was a tall, slender man
with thinning pale blond hair and deep-set blue eyes. His heavy
hands were scarred here and there, small nicks from battle. When
Nevyn began to kneel before him, the king stopped him with a
wave of his hand and a good-humored smile.

“You may dispense with the usual groveling, good sir, at your age.
Sit down. Page, fetch the scholar some ale.”

Nevyn took a chair at the king’s right, then brought out the letters of
introduction from his shirt, where he’d been carrying them for
safekeeping. The king looked at the seals on the message tubes,
nodded his recognition, then tossed them onto the table.

“Later I’ll have my scribe read them to me. Unfortunately, my father
was an old-fashioned man, and I was never taught a single letter
when I was a lad. Now I don’t have the time for such luxuries, but I
don’t intend to repeat the same mistake with my son.”

“So the priests of Wmm told me, Your Highness. I admire a man
who shows respect for learning.”

“No doubt you would, given your calling in life. Now, my scribe has
started teaching the lad how to letter, but I want someone who can
tell him about history, the laws, that sort of thing. In his last letter,
Pedraddyn of Wmmglaedd said you’d bring books with you.”

“I have them on my pack mule, Your Highness. In case you
shouldn’t require my services, I’ll leave them behind for the next
candidate.”

“Oh, you can take it for granted that you’re staying. It’s all been
passing strange. When I first sent to the temples for a tutor, I was
expecting to get a priest. That’s who they usually send to a king’s
dun. But they told me that they just didn’t have the right man
available. It didn’t matter where I sent, and I asked at more than
one holy place.”

“Indeed? How very peculiar, Your Highness.”

“So I was cursed glad when Pedraddyn wrote to say that you’d
turned up. No doubt it’s Wyrd, and who can question that?”

Nevyn smiled politely and said not a word in answer. Yet for all his
talk of Wyrd, Casyl spent the good part of an hour asking shrewd
questions about the education he had in mind for the Prince. Like
most illiterate men, the king had a prodigious memory, and he
dredged up references to every book or author he’d mentioned
over the years just to see if Nevyn knew them, too. They were just
beginning to discuss Nevyn’s maintenance and recompense when
there was a bustle and confusion at the door: maidservants
shrieked, guards swore and shouted. An enormous gray-and-black
boarhound raced into the great hall with a very dead chicken in its
mouth. Right behind ran a young boy, as blond and pale as Casyl.
Yelling at the top of his lungs, he chased the panicked hound right
under the royal chair, so suddenly that the dog nearly dumped the
king on the floor. Swearing, Casyl jumped clear as the lad flung
himself down and grabbed the hound’s collar.

“Give it back, Spider! Bad dog!”

“Maryn, by the fat rump of Epona’s steed! Can’t you see I’m talking
with an important guest?”

“My apologies, Father,” The prince went on hauling the hound out
from the chair. “But he stole it, and I told Cook I’d get it back,
because he’s my dog.”

With a dramatic sigh the king stood back out of the way and let the
prince pry the by now much ill-used and doubtless inedible chicken
out of the boarhound’s jaws. Nevyn watched in bemused
fascination: so this was the future king of all Deverry and Eldidd. As
was necessary for the plan, he was a handsome child, with large,
solemn gray eyes in a rosy-cheeked oval face and neatly cropped
golden hair.

“Get that bleeding fowl out of the great hall, will you?” Casyl
snarled. “Here, I’ll call a page.”

“Please, Father, I’d best take it back myself, because I promised
Cook I would..”

“Well and good, then. Come back when you’re done.” The king
aimed a vague kick at the dog. “Begone, hound!”

Boarhound and marked prince alike scurried out of the royal
presence. With a sigh, Casyl sat back down and took his tankard
from the table.

“He’s a wild lad good scholar, and this is a rough sort of court, as
you’ve doubtless noticed.”

“Well, Your Highness, there is much virtue in a simple life under
less than easy conditions.”

“Nicely put. I can see that you’ll be able to teach the prince tact, if
naught else. I see no reason to pretend to pomp that I can’t afford,
The glory of my kingdom has always lain in her soldiers, not her
fine manners.”

“And young Maryn had best learn that, my liege, if he wants to have
a kingdom to govern when his turn comes.”

It took Nevyn some time to fit into the life of the palace. In the
mornings he gave Maryn his lessons, but in the afternoon the
prince went to the captain of the warband for training in riding and
swordcraft. Nevyn spent much time alone at first, in his large,
wedge-shaped chamber at the very top of the broch. It was nicely
furnished with a bed, a writing desk, and a heavily carved chest for
his clothing, but its best feature was the view, a vast sweep of the
lake below and the rolling farmland beyond. At meals, he ate with
the other high-ranked servitors and their families: the bard, the
chamberlain, the equerry, and the king’s chirurgeon. At first they
regarded him warily with an eye to keeping the king’s special favor
for themselves, but since he cared naught for privilege and petty
signs of rank, they soon accepted him.

For Maryn’s studies Nevyn had brought a number of important
books, among them a general précis of the laws for beginners and
several volumes of history, starting with the Dawntime and
continuing through the annals of the various Deverrian and Eldidd
kings. Eventually he would send to Aberwyn for copies of Prince
Mael’s books, particularly the treatise on nobility, but they would
have been hard slogging for a beginner. Every morning he would
let the lad read aloud for a while, stumbling often but always
pushing on, then take the book and finish the passage himself.
Together they would discuss what they had read. Once Maryn
realized that history was full of battles and scandal in equal parts,
his interest in his studies picked up enormously.

Once he’d become a well-known figure in the palace, Nevyn took
to spending some time with the queen, who was glad to have
someone new and well educated in the dun. Seryan had been born
of the line of Cantrae pretenders to the throne and was a distant
cousin of the current king, Slwmar the Second. At nineteen she’d
been married off to Casyl—much against her will, because not only
was the king five years her junior but his kingdom was a rough, wild
place compared to her home in Lughcarn. Now, some seventeen
years later, she’d made her peace with her life. She had her two
elder daughters and her young son to occupy her, and as she
admitted one day to Nevyn, she’d grown fond of Casyl with time.

“If an old man may speak frankly,” Nevyn said. “He’s a much better
man than any of that pack of ferrets around the throne in Cantrae.”

“Oh, I agree with you now, but what does a lass of nineteen know?
All I could think of was that he was such a young lad, and that I’d
never get to attend any of my mother’s splendid feasts again.”

And with a sigh, the queen changed the subject away from such
personal matters to a particular song the bard had sung in hall the
night before.

Not long after Nevyn’s arrival, the first snows came. The lake froze
to a solid glitter of white, and the farmlands lay shrouded with only
the distant trails of smoke to mark where the houses stood. Life in
the dun settled into a slow routine centered on the huge hearths in
the great hall, where the noble-born sat close to the fire and the
servants lay in the warm straw with the dogs. As the drowsy weeks
slipped past, Nevyn began to grow honestly fond of Maryn. He was
a hard child to dislike—always happy, always courteous, supremely
confident because of his position as marked prince yet. honestly
concerned, with the welfare of others, Nevyn knew that if his work
were successful and Maryn did indeed take the throne of Deverry,
everyone would look back on his childhood and say that obviously
the lad had been born to be king. No doubt little legends about a
gallantry beyond his years would spring up, and the ordinary events
of childhood would be viewed as mighty omens. That his mother
was a highly intelligent woman and his father an unusually
honorable man would never enter into that kind of thinking. Nevyn
was quite willing to have things that way. After all, he was there to
create a myth, not write history.

And the myth seemed determined to get itself created. Shortly
before the Feast of the Sun, which would also mark Maryn’s tenth
birthday, the prince came to his tutor’s chamber for his lessons in
an unusually thoughtful mood. Since the lad’s mind wandered all
through the reading, Nevyn finally asked him what was wrong.

“Oh, naught truly. But, sir, you’re a wise man. Do you know what
dreams mean?”

“Sometimes, but some dreams only mean that you ate too much
before you went to bed.”

Maryn giggled then cocked his head to one side in thought.

“I dont think this was that sort of dream. It seemed ever so real
while I was sleeping, but then I woke up, and it seemed daft.” He
squirmed on his chair and looked away in embarrassment. “Father
says a real prince never gives himself airs.”

“Your father’s right, but no one can blame you for what you do in
dreams, Tell me about it, if you’d like.”

“I dreamt I was king of all Deverry. It was ever so real. I was
leading my army, you see, and I could smell the horses and
everything. We were in Cantrae and we were winning. You were
there, too, sir. You were my royal councillor. I was all sweaty and
dirty, because I’d been fighting, but the men were cheering and
calling me the king.”

For a moment Nevyn found it hard to breathe. It was possible that
the prince had only picked up the images from his tutor’s mind, in
the uncanny way that children can sometimes read the minds of
adults they want to please, but the detail, such as the smell of
horses, was so exact that he doubted it.

“You think it’s daft, don’t you?” the prince said.

“I don’t. How good are you at keeping secrets?”

“Truly good, and I’ll swear a vow if you like.”

Nevyn stared into the boy’s eyes, where his soul lay, like a fire
ready in a hearth, waiting for a spark in the tinder.

“Swear to me you’ll never repeat what I say, not to your father or
your mother, to priest or peddler, not to anyone.”

“I swear it, on the honor of my clan, my royal line, and the gods of
my people.”

“Well and good. You will be king someday, king of all Deverry. The
great god Wmm has marked you out in his oracle and sent me
here to aid Your Highness.”

When Maryn looked away, his face pale, his soft boy’s mouth was
slack, but his eyes were those of the king to come.

“You’re dweomer, aren’t you, sir, just like in the tales? But oh,
Father says there’s no such thing as dweomer anymore, that it was
all in the Dawntime.”

“Indeed, my liege? Watch the hearth.”

Nevyn summoned the Wildfolk, who first obligingly put the fire out
cold, then lit it again with a great gust of flame when Nevyn
snapped his fingers. Maryn jumped up and grinned.

“Oh, that’s splendid! Then my dream was truly, truly true?”

“It was, but not a word to any living soul until I tell you that the time
is ripe.”

“I won’t. I’d die first.”

He spoke so solemnly that he seemed more a man than a child,
caught in one of those rare moments when the levels of the soul
blend and let something of its Wyrd slip through to the conscious
mind. Then the moment vanished.

“Well, if I’m going to be king, I guess I’d better know all these
wretched laws, but oh, they’re so boring! Can’t we read about
battles and stuff for a while?”

“Very well, Your Highness. As the prince wishes.”

That night, Nevyn had to admit to himself that he was well pleased
by the way things were going. He could only hope that he’d have
enough time to train the lad properly, at least five more years.
Although he’d never leave Maryn’s side again until the long wars
were over and the land at peace, he wanted to put, not a puppet on
the throne, but a king.




FOUR

The year 842. While he was walking down by the riverbank, Retyc
the high priest saw this omen. A flock of sparrows was pecking in
the grass. Suddenly a raven flew by. All the sparrows flew up and
followed the raven, just as if he were another sparrow and the
leader of their flock. Someday, His Holiness said, a man from
another people will come to lead Deverry men to war . . .

—The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn

Late on a warm autumn day the silver daggers made their camp on
the grassy banks of the Trebycaver. It was an organized chaos:
ninety men tending a hundred and fifty horses, the fifteen women
who followed the camp pitching tents and getting supplies out of
the pair of wagons, the handful of bastard children running around
and shouting, free at last after a long day behind one saddle or
another. While the others worked, Maddyn and Caradoc strolled
through, shouting an order here, a jest there. By a pile of saddles a
weary Clwna was nursing her fussy new daughter, Pomyan. Clwna
looked so pale and faint that Maddyn hunkered down beside her.

“How do you fare, lass? You shouldn’t have ridden so soon after
having the babe.”

“Oh, I’m as well as I need to be. It was better than never catching
up to you again.”

“We could have waited a few days.”

“Huh. I’m sure the captain would have waited for the likes of me.”

When she moved the baby to her other breast, the tiny lass raised
her head and looked cloudy-eyed at Maddyn. He smiled at her and
wondered who her father was, a perennial question about every
child bom to the camp followers, although he was the only man
who seemed to care one way or the other. When Caradoc called
him to come walk on, he mentioned to the captain that he thought
Clwna looked ill.

“Well, she’ll have a couple of days to rest now,” Caradoc said. “I
think we’ll leave this ragtag piss-poor excuse for a troop here while
you and I ride to see this so-called King Casyl.”

“Very well. I’ll admit we’re not much to look at these days.”

“Never were, and all these wretched women and barracks brats
don’t help us give ourselves fine military airs.”

“You could have ordered us to leave them behind when we left
Eldidd.”

“Horseshit. Believe it or not, there’s a bit of honor left in your old
captain’s heart, lad. They’re a bunch of sluts, but it was my men
who swelled their bellies, wasn’t it? Besides, there was enough
grumbling about leaving Eldidd as it was. Didn’t want open mutiny.”
Caradoc sighed in profound melancholy. “We got soft there. That’s
the trouble with staying in one place too long. Should’ve left Eldidd
long ago.”

“I still don’t see why we left it now.”

Caradoc shot him a sour glance and led the way out of the camp to
the riverbank. In the slanting sun, the water ran rippled gold through
banks soft with wild grass.

“Don’t repeat this to anyone, or I’ll smash your face for you,”
Caradoc said. “But I moved us out because of this dream I had.”

Maddyn stared, frankly speechless.

“In the dream someone was telling me that it was time. Don’t ask
me why or time for what, but I heard this voice, like, and it sounded
like a king’s voice, all arrogant and commanding, telling me that it
was time to leave and ride north. If we starve in Pyrdon, then I’ll
know the dream came from the demons, but by the gods, I’ve
never had a dream like that before. Tried to ignore it for a blasted
eightnight. Kept coming back. Call me daft if you want.”

“Naught of the sort. But I’ve got to say that I’m surprised to the
bottom of my heart.”

“Not half as surprised as I was. I’m getting old. Daft. Soon I’ll be
drooling in a chair by a tavern fire.” Caradoc sighed again and
shook his head in mock sadness. “But we’re about ten miles from
this King Casyl’s dun. Tomorrow we’ll ride up there and see just
how daft I was. Let’s get back to camp now. I’ll be leaving Owaen
in charge, and I want to give him his orders.”

On the morrow, Maddyn and Caradoc left the camp early and
followed the river up to the town of Drwloc. After the splendors of
Abernaudd, the town wasn’t much as royal cities went, about two
thousand houses crammed inside a timber-laced stone wall. As
they led their horses along streets paved with half-buried logs for
want of cobbles, Maddyn began to wonder if Caradoc was indeed
going daft. If this was the jewel of the kingdom, it seemed that the
king wouldn’t be able to afford the silver daggers. They found a
tavern over by the north gate, got themselves ale, then asked
casual questions about the king and his holdings. When the
tavernman held forth upon his liege’s honor, bravery, and farseeing
mind without ever mentioning luxuries or reserves of cash,
Caradoc grew positively gloomy.

“Tell me somewhat,” the captain said at last. “Does His Highness
keep a large standing army?”

“As large a one as he can feed. You never know what those Eldidd
dogs are going to do.”

This news made him a good bit more cheerful. They took their ale
outside to sit on a small wooden bench in front of the tavern. In the
warm hazy day, the townsfolk hurried past on assorted errands, an
old peasant leading a mule laden with cabbages, a young
merchant in much mended checked brigga, a pretty lass who
ignored them both in the most pointed fashion.

“We should have ridden north earlier,” Caradoc said. “His
Highness isn’t going to want to feed extra men all winter when the
summer’s fighting is done. Ah, curse that dream! May the demon
who sent it to me drown in a tub of horse piss.”

“Well, there’s no harm in riding out to ask.”

With a gloomy nod, Caradoc sipped his ale. Down the twisting
street, a silver horn rang out; a squad of horsemen appeared,
walking their mounts at a stately pace. At their head were two riders
with rearing stallions blazoned on their shirts, and a guard of four
more rode behind. In the middle, on a splendid bay gelding, rode a
handsome blond lad of about fourteen. His white, red, and gold
plaid cloak was thrown back and pinned at one shoulder with an
enormous ring brooch of gold set with rubies. Beside him on a
matched bay was an old man with a thick shock of white hair and
Piercing blue eyes. Maddyn stared briefly, then jumped up with a
shout.

“Nevyn! By all the gods!”

Grinning broadly, the old man turned his horse out of line and
waved, paused to say something to the lad, then rode over,
dismounting as Maddyn ran up to greet him. Maddyn clasped his
outretched hand and shook it hard.

“By the hells, it gladdens my heart to see you, sir.”

“And mine to see you,” Nevyn said with a somewhat sly smile
“See, I told you that our paths would cross again.”

“And right you were. What are you doing in Pyrdon?”

“Tutoring the marked prince. Are the rest of the silver daggers with
you?”

“Not far, just camped down the river. Wait—how do you know
about them?”

“How do you think? Has your captain had any strange dreams
lately?”

Maddyn turned cold with an awe that ran down his back like melting
snow. Tankard in hand, a puzzled Caradoc strolled over to join
them as the young prince dismounted and led his horse over to
join his tutor. When Maddyn and Caradoc knelt to him, the prince
gave them a courteous nod of acknowledgment, but the gesture
was splendidly firm for one so young. Maddyn was instantly struck
by how noble the young prince was, the gallant way he stood, the
proud set to his head, the easy way his hand rested on his sword
hilt, as if he’d seen many a battle beyond his years. A prince
indeed, he thought, born to be king. At the thought, his cold awe
grew stronger, and he wondered just why Nevyn the sorcerer was
here in this obscure kingdom.

“Your Highness,” the old man said, “Allow me to present Maddyn
the silver dagger, and the captain of the troop, Caradoc of
Cerrmor. Men, you kneel before Maryn, marked prince of Pyrdon.”

At the casual mention of his name by one he didn’t know, Caradoc
glared at Nevyn, who ignored him with a bland smile.

“Silver daggers, are you?” Maryn said with, an engaging, boyish
smile. “Pyrdon may be at the ends of the earth, but I’ve heard of
your troop. How many of you are there?”

“Ninety, Your Highness,” Caradoc said. “And we have our own
smith, chirurgeon, and bard.”

Maryn glanced at Nevyn for advice.

“It would pay to look them over, Your Highness, but you’ll have to
consult with your father the king first, of course.”

“Well and good, then. Men, you may rise and stand in our
presence.” The prince glanced Nevyn’s way again. “I don’t
suppose I could go look them over right now.”

“Not with the king expecting you back. Have the captain bring them
to you on the morrow.”

“Oh, very well. Captain. Caradoc, assemble your troop before the
gates of the royal palace on the morrow. Send me word through
the guards on the causeway.”

“Well and good, Your Highness. We’ll arrive around noon.”

With a laugh of excitement, the young prince strode back to his
men. Nevyn winked at Maddyn, then rejoined his lord. As the royal
escort rode on, Caradoc stared openmouthed until they were out
of sight. He retrieved his ale from the street and led the way back
to the bench, where he sat down with an exaggerated heavy sigh.

“Very well, Maddo. Who is that old man?”

“The herbman who saved my life up in Cantrae. Remember me
telling you about Brin Toraedic? And he’s the same one who
tipped Caudyr off to leave Dun Deverry.”

“An herbman for a prince’s tutor? Horseshit.”

“Oh, by the gods, can’t you see what’s been stuck under your
face? The old man’s dweomer.”

Caradoc choked on his ale.

“Well, he’s the one who sent you the dream,” Maddyn said after
he’d recovered. “He admitted as much to me.”

“Ah well, if we get this hire, it cursed well won’t be dull, will it now?
Dweomermen, impressive young princes— it all sounds like one of
your songs.”

“Oh, it’s stranger than any song I know. If Nevyn’s come to live in
Pyrdon, I’ll wager he’s got grave things afoot, and the gods only
know what they are.”

“Now here,” Casyl snapped. “When I spoke of getting you a
personal guard, I was thinking of twenty men, not ninety.”

“But, Father, there’s bound to be fighting next summer. It would be
splendid if I could lead close to a hundred men.”

“Lead? Listen, you young cub, I’ve told you a thousand times that
you’re staying in the rear for your first campaign.”

“Well, if you’re so worried, then the more men I have, the safer I’ll
be.”

Casyl growled under his breath, but it was a fond exasperation.

“My liege the king?” Nevyn said. “If I may interject a word?”

“By all means.”

“Although I doubt the prince’s motives, he does speak the truth.
The larger the guard, the better. The time might well come soon
when he’ll need many men around him.”

Casiyl turned and looked at him with narrowed eyes. They were
sitting in the shabby council chamber at a round table, set with only
a pair of wobbly bronze candelabra.

“Father.” Maryn leaned across the table. “You know that Nevyn’s
omens always come true.”

“It’s not a matter of his prediction, but of the coin. How are we
going to pay and shelter ninety mercenaries?”

“I’ve got the taxes from that bit of land in my own name. They’ll
help provision the troop. I get two whole cows this fall, just for
starters.”

“And how long will it take hungry men to dispatch that much beef?”

“But, Father! You’ve heard all those tales about the silver daggers.
If even half of them are true, why, they fight like demons, from
hell!”

Casyl leaned back in his chair and idly rubbed his chin, with the
back of his hand while he thought it over. Nevyn waited silently,
knowing that Maryn was bound to get his own way in the end.

“Well,” Casyl said at last. “I haven’t even gotten a look at them yet.
I’ll review them when they arrive tomorrow, and then we’ll see.”

“My thanks, Father. You know that the prince will always put himself
under the king’s orders.”

“Out, you little hypocrite! Go talk to your mother. She told me
earlier that she wanted a word with you.”

Maryn made him a formal bow, nodded to Nevyn, then ran out of
the chamber, slamming the door behind him, and breaking into a
loud whistle as he trotted down the hall.

“Ah ye gods, next summer my son rides to war! Tonight, Nevyn, I
feel as old as you.”

“No doubt, Your Highness, but I still hear a lad, not a man, when he
talks of the glories of war.”

“Of course, but he’ll learn. I only pray that our next campaign is an
easy one. Here, have you had some kind of omen?”

“Of sorts. Your Highness, the king in Cerrmor is fated to die soon, I
think before the winter’s out.”

Casyl went very still, his hands tight on the arms of the chair.

“His only son is dead.” Nevyn went on. “His three daughters are too
young to have sons yet. Tell me, Your Highness, have you ever
fancied yourself as king in Deverry? When Glyn dies, you’re the
heir.”

“Ah, by the hells, it can’t be! He’s just a young man.”

“Fevers and suchlike come to the young as well as the old. Your
Highness had best think carefully, because with a Cantrae wife he
won’t be terribly popular with his new vassals.”

Casyl sat so still, his eyes so heavy-lidded, that he seemed
asleep. Nevyn waited for a few minutes to let him think before he
went on.

“And about the silver daggers, Your Highness? You’ll need men
like that if you’re going to have a chance to claim the Cerrmor
throne.”

“Chance? Don’t be a dolt, man! Even if I had an army twice the
size of the one I do, my chance is about as good as a flea’s in a
soap bath, and I think me you know it.”

“If the Cerrmor lords accept you, then you have a very good
chance, my liege.”

Casyl rose and paced to the open window, where the cold night air
came in with a heavy scent of damp.

“If I strip my kingdom of men to march on Cerrmor, Eldidd will
march north. It’s a question of trading one kingdom for another,
isn’t it? Throwing away the land I have in a bid to gain land I’ve
never seen. There are men in Cerrmor who have claims as good
as mine. Somewhere back in my family line is a bastard son, and
the other factions could easily use that against me. And while we all
squabble over Cerrmor, the Cantrae line will be taking over the rest
of the kingdom. Does it sound like a fair bargain to you?”

“It doesn’t, my liege, especially since I know a man who has a
better claim to the throne of all Deverry than any other man alive.”

“Indeed?” Casyl turned, leaning back casually on the window
frame, smiling a little in academic interest. “And who might that
be?”

“Does His Highness truly have no idea?”

Casyl froze, only his mouth working in a twist of pain.

“I think me he does.” Nevyn was inexorable. “Your son, my liege.
While a Cantrae wife would be held against you, a Cantrae mother
strengthens Maryn’s position a hundredfold. He has ties to every
royal line, even Eldidd, strong ties.”

“So he does,” Casyl’s voice was a whisper. “Oh ye gods! I never
gave a moment’s thought to it before, truly. I never dreamt the
Cerrmor line would fail like this. Do you think that Maryn has a
chance at acceptance, or will he have to fight for his throne?”

“I think me Cerrmor will welcome him. Will they want a Cantrae king
on the throne instead?”

“Of course not.” Casyl began pacing back and forth. “It’s going to
be a hard and dangerous road to the throne, but how can I deny my
son’s claim to his Wyrd?”

“There’s more at stake than Maryn’s Wyrd. This is a matter of
grave import for the entire kingdom. Truly, I know that I’ve talked of
strange omens and suchlike without a shred of proof, but you’ll
know that I’ve spoken the truth when news comes of Glyn’s death.
In the meantime, it might be politic to hire Maryn as large a guard
as possible.”

“Politic indeed if he’s the heir to two thrones. Done, then. I’ll have a
look at those silver daggers on the morrow.”

On the morrow morning, Maryn was restless beyond a simple
excitement at the chance to acquire a personal guard. When Nevyn
suggested that they have a talk, the prince insisted on leaving the
dun and going down to the narrow sandy beach of the island where
they could be completely private. Although it was unseasonably
warm still, thin cirrus clouds mackereled the sky, and the leaves on
the birches were a sickly yellow.

“Very well, Your Highness,” Nevyn said once they were settled on
an outcrop of rock. “What grave matter is troubling you?”

“Maybe it’s naught. Maybe I’m going daft or suchlike.”

“Indeed? Out with it.”

“Well, when I met those silver daggers yesterday, I got the
strangest feeling. This is the beginning, the feeling said. You hear
about men’s Wyrds talking to them, but I never truly understood
before. I do now, because I heard my Wyrd say that to me. Or am I
daft?”

“Not daft at all, truly. Your Wyrd is gathering, sure enough.”

Slack-mouthed, the prince stared out over the lake, rippling as the
wind rose in a gust that shook the birches.

“Are you afraid, Your Highness?”

“Not for myself. I just thought of somewhat. Nevyn, if I’m meant to
be king, then men are going to die for me. There’ll have to be a war
before I can claim the throne.”

“That’s true.”

He was silent for a long while more, looking so young, so absurdly
smooth-faced and wide-eyed, that it seemed impossible that here
sat the true king of all Deverry. For all that Maryn had taken his
training well, at fourteen he was far from ready for the work ahead,
but then, Nevyn doubted if any man, no matter how old and wise,
would ever be truly ready.

“I don’t want all those deaths on my head.” He spoke abruptly, with
the ring of command in his voice.

“Your Highness has no choice. If you refuse to take your Wyrd
upon you, then more men will die fighting to put some false king on
your throne.”

Tears welled in his eyes; he brushed them irritably away on his
sleeve before he answered.

“Then I’ll follow my Wyrd.” He rose, and suddenly he looked older.
“Let no man bar me from my rightful place.”

Just at noon the message came that the silver daggers had
arrived. Nevyn rode out with Maryn and the king to conduct
something of a test of his plans. Out in the meadow at the end of
the causeway, the men sat on horseback in orderly ranks with
Caradoc, Maddyn, and a young man that Nevyn didn’t recognize
front and center. Behind them was a disorderly mob of pack
horses, wagons, women, and even a few children.

“That’s a surprise,” Maryn remarked. “I didn’t think men like this
would have wives.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them wives,” Casyl said. “There’s still a few
things you have to learn, lad.”

Nevyn and Maryn rode behind the king as he trotted over to
Caradoc. Nevyn was not impressed with the troop at first sight.
Although they were reasonably clean and their weapons were in
good repair, they were a hard-bitten, scruffy lot, slouching in their
saddles, watching the royalty with barely concealed insolence. At
every man’s belt, the silver hilt of the dagger gleamed like a
warning. Caradoc, however, bowed low from the saddle at the
king’s approach.

“Greetings, Your Highness. I’ve brought my men as the young
Prince ordered. I most humbly hope Your Highness will find them
acceptable.”

“We shall see, but if I should offer you shelter, then you’ll be riding
at the prince’s orders, not mine.”

Caradoc glanced at Maryn with a slight, skeptical smile, as if he
were reckoning up the lad’s age. In his mind Nevyn called upon the
High Lords of Air and Fire, who promptly answered the prearged
signal and came to cluster around the lad. Their force enveloped
him, giving him a faint glow, an aura of power. A light wind sprang
up to ruffle his hair and swell his plaid, and it seemed that the very
sunlight was brighter where it fell upon him. Caradoc started to
speak, then bowed again, dipping as low as he could.

“I think me it would be a great honor to ride for you, my prince.
Would you care to review my men?”

“I would, but let me warn you, Captain. If you take this hire you’ll be
riding with me on a long road indeed. Of course, only the hard
roads lead to true glory.”

Caradoc bowed again, visibly shaken to hear the lad talk like the
hero of a bard’s tale. The silver daggers came to a stiff-backed
attention in a sudden respect, and the young lieutenant beside
Maddyn caught his breath sharply. When Nevyn glanced his way,
he nearly swore aloud: Gerraent, with the falcon mark on shin and
sword hilt just as it always seemed to be.

“This is Owaen, good councillor.” Caradoc noticed his interest.
“Second-in-command in battle. Maddyn’s our bard, and also
second-in-command in peaceful doings.”

“You seem to keep things well in hand, Captain,” Maryn said.

“I do my best, my prince.”

Owaen was looking Nevyn over with more curiosity than he showed
for either the prince or the king. In those hard blue eyes Nevyn saw
the barest trace of recognition, a spark of their old, mutual hatred,
that lasted only briefly before it was replaced by bewilderment.
Doubtless Owaen was wondering how he could feel so strongly
about an unarmed old man that he’d only just met. Nevyn gave him
a small smile and looked away again. He was seething with a
personal excitement; here were Gerraent and Blaen, now called
Owaen and Maddyn, and there was Caradoc, who in a former life
had been king himself in Cerrmor under the name of Glyn the First.
Glyn had been such a good king that Nevyn was shocked to find
him as an outcast man and a silver dagger until he reminded
himself that just such a man was essential now to the well-being of
the kingdom. A mercenary like Caradoc fought for only one thing:
victory. Not for him the niceties and snares of honor; he would
stoop to any ruse or low trick if he had to in order to win. The
members of his charmed circle of Wyrd were all gathering for the
work, and that meant that somewhere soon Brangwen’s soul would
join them. Soon he would have another chance to untangle his
snarl of Wyrd.

All at once he remembered the camp followers, hovering at a
respectful distance behind their men. He felt sick, wondering i she
were among them. Could she have fallen so low in this life? For a
moment, he was honestly afraid to look; then he steeled himself.
When Casyl and Caradoc began discussing the terms of the hire,
Nevyn left the prince in the care of the lords of the elements and
jogged his horse along the ranks, as if the prince’s councillor were
having one last good look at the men his liege wished to take into
his guard. Maddyn broke ranks to join him.

“Let’s leave the horse trading to Carro and your king. By the hells,
Nevyn, it gladdens my heart to think we’ll be spending the winter in
the same dun. I know Caudyr will want to talk with you, too.”

“Caudyr?” It took him a moment to remember the young
chirurgeon of Dun Deverry. “Well, now, is that young cub the
chirurgeon Caradoc spoke of? I take it he followed my advice, all
those years ago.”

“So he did, and I’ll wager it saved his life when Slwmar died, too.”

“Good. It seems he took my advice about abortions as well,
judging from the pack of children I see over there. How many
lasses have you picked up along the road, Maddo? I seem to
remember that you’ve always had luck with women.”

“Oh, these are hardly all mine. We share what we can get when we
can, you see.”

Nevyn did see, entirely too well. The thought of Brangwen living
passed from man to man was like a bitter taste of poison in his
mouth. Most of the women were riding astride, their skirts hitched
up around them, some with a small child behind them, but all of
them, mothers or not, were as hard-eyed and suspicious as their
men. At the very rear, a pale blond woman was sitting in a mule
cart, cushioned by blankets as she nursed a baby.

“That’s Clwna,” Maddyn said, gesturing at her. “When we’re back at
the dun, I’d be ever so grateful if you or some other herbman
would have a look at her. She hasn’t been well since the babe was
born, and Caudyr can’t seem to mend her. She’s as much my
woman as any of them are.”

“Oh, let’s talk to her right now.” Nevyn’s heart sank with dread. “The
king and your captain will doubtless be a while yet.”

When they rode over, Clwna glanced up indifferently. There were
dark circles like bruises under her blue eyes, and her skin far too
pale. Nevyn almost gasped in relief when he realized she was not
his Brangwen at all.

“This is Nevyn, the best herbman in the kingdom,” Maddyn said
with forced cheer. “He’ll have you right as rain straightaway, my
sweet.”

Clwna merely smiled as if she doubted it.

“Well, it’s a simple enough diagnosis, truly,” Nevyn said. “A good
midwife would have spotted it in a minute, but the only women
Caudyr’s ever tended were rich and well fed. Here, lass, your
blood is weak because you just birthed a babe, and I’ll wager you
haven’t been eating right. Get an apple, put an iron nail in it, and
leave it there overnight. Then take it out and eat the apple. You’ll
see the red streak of the sanguine humor, which is what you need.
Do that every night for a fortnight, and then we’ll see.”

“My thanks,” Clwna was stammering in surprise. “It’s good of a
courtly man like you to give advice to a silver dagger’s wench.”

“Oh, I’m not as courtly as I seem. Here, your babe is a pretty little
thing. Who’s the father?”

“And how would I know, my lord?” She shrugged in sincere
indifference. “Maddyn’s or Aethan’s, most like, but she could be
the captain’s, too.”

In return for their winter’s keep and a silver piece a man if they
should see any fighting, Caradoc pledged his loyalty to Prince
Maryn through the spring, with terms to be renegotiated at Beltane.
Getting so large a troop quartered in the cramped island dun was
something of a problem. The chamberlain and the captain of
Casyl’s warband conferred for an hour, then sent servants running
all over the ward until at last the mercenaries had a barracks of their
own, a stable for their horses, and a shed for their wagons and
extra gear. The chamberlain was an old man with an amazing mind
for details and a scrupulous sense of propriety. He was quite
outraged, he told Nevyn, to find that the silver daggers found
nothing wrong with keeping the women right in the same barracks
with them.

“Well, why not?” Nevyn, said. “It’ll keep the lasses safe from the
king’s riders. Or do you want fights all winter long?”

“But what of those innocent children?”

“Let us profoundly hope that they’re sound sleepers.”

After the evening meal Nevyn went out to visit Maddyn in the
barracks. When he came into the long room, dimly lit by firelight, he
had to pause for a moment and catch his breath at the combined
reek of horse, man sweat, and smoke. Most of the men were
playing dice; the women huddled at the far end to gossip among
themselves while the babies slept nearby. At the hearth, Maddyn,
Caradoc, and Caudyr sat on the floor and talked, while Owaen lay
stretched out on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms.
Although he seemed asleep, he looked up briefly when Maddyn
introduced him to Nevyn, then went back to watching the fire.

“Come sit down,” Caudyr said, sliding over a bit to make room. “It
gladdens my heart to see you again. I thought that a sorcerer like
you would have more important work at hand than selling herbs.”

“Oh, the herbs are important in their own way, too, lad. Now tell me,
how did you end up with that silver dagger in your belt?”

For a long while Caudyr, Maddyn, and Nevyn talked of old times,
while Caradoc listened with close attention and Owaen fell asleep.
At length the talk turned inevitably to Nevyn’s strange employment
in the king’s palace. Nevyn put them off with vague questions until
Caradoc joined in.

“Here, good sorcerer, what’s the dweomer doing hiring a piss-poor
bunch of men like us? I think me we’ve got a right to know, since
you’re asking us to die for the prince as like as not.”

“Now here, Captain, I’m not asking a thing of you. The prince is the
one who gives you meat and mead.”

“Horseshit. The prince does what you tell him, at least when
somewhat important’s at stake.” He exchanged a glance with
Maddyn. “I was impressed with the lad, very impressed, you might
say.”

“Indeed?”

When Caradoc hesitated, Maddyn leaned forward.

“You’ve found the true king, haven’t you? Admit it, Nevyn. That lad
has to be the true king, or no one on earth ever will be.”

Although he wanted to whoop and dance in triumph, Nevyn
restrained himself to a small, cryptic smile.

“Tell me, Captain,” he said casually. “How would you feel about
leading your men all the way to Dun Deverry someday?”

Caradoc pulled his silver dagger and held it point up to catch the
wink and glint of firelight

“This is the only honor any of us have left, and I’ll swear you an
oath on it. Either I see the king on his throne, or I die over the
Prince’s body.”

“And you’re willing to die for a man you saw for the first time
today?”

“Why not? Better than dying for some little pusboil of an arrogant
minor lord.” With a laugh he sheathed the dagger. “And when does
the war begin?”

“Soon, Captain. Very soon.”

Smiling to himself, Caradoc nodded. Nevyn felt like weeping. He
could see in the captain’s berserker eyes the bloody price they
would all pay for victory.

Since everyone in Eldidd knew about the silver daggers, the news
that they’d left for Pyrdon spread fast. It was just his luck, Branoic
decided, that they’d move on just when he needed to find them.
Even though a single rider could travel faster than a troop with a
baggage train, they had a head start, of some ten nights, and he
never caught them on the road. After one last cold night of
sleeping outside because he couldn’t afford an inn, he rode into
Drwloc around noon and found a cheap tavern, where he spent his
last two coppers on a tankard of ale and a chunk of bread. He ate
standing up with his back to the wall while he kept an eye on the
other patrons, who were a scruffy lot to his way of thinking. As soon
as the trade would allow, the serving lass minced over to him with a
suggestive little smile. Unwashed and skinny, she appealed to him
about as much as the flea-bitten hounds by the hearth, but he
decided that he might as well get some information out of her.

“How far is it to King Casyl’s dun, lass?”

“About two miles on the west-running road. You must be from a
long way away if you don’t know that.”

“I am, truly. Now tell me, has a troop of mercenaries been through
here? They hail from Eldidd, the lads I want, and they all carry
daggers with silver pommels.”

“Oh, they were, sure enough, and a nasty lot they looked. I don’t
know why the king took them on.”

“Because they’re some of the best fighting men in the three
kingdoms, no doubt.”

He strode away before she could flirt with him further. Out in the
tavern yard his chestnut gelding stood waiting, laden with
everything he owned in the world: a bedroll, a pair of mostly empty
saddlebags, and a shield nicked and battered, under its coat of
dirty whitewash. He hoped that Caradoc wouldn’t hold his lack of
mail against him, but he had a good sword at least, and he knew
how to use it.

When Branoic rode up to the causeway leading to Casyl’s dun, the
guards refused to let him pass, and no more would they take in
message for a dirty and dangerous-looking stranger. Since had he
no money for a bribe, Branoic tried first courtesy, then argument,
but neither worked. The guards only laughed and told him that if he
wanted to see Caradoc, he’d have to camp there until the captain
rode out. By then Branoic was so furious that he was tempted to
draw his sword and force the issue, but common sense prevailed.
He hadn’t ridden all the way from Eldidd only to get himself hanged
by some petty king.

“Well and good, then,” he said. “I’ll sit at your gates and starve until
you’re shamed enough to let me in.”

As he strode away, leading his horse, he glanced back to see the
guards looking apprehensive, as if they believed him capable of it.
In truth, since he had neither coin nor food, he had little choice in
the matter. In the meadow across the road he slacked the
chestnut’s bit and let it graze, then sat down where he could glare
at the guards and be easily seen. As the morning crept by, they
kept giving him nervous looks that might have been inspired by
guilt, but of course, they may have been merely afraid of his
temper. Although he was only twenty, Branoic was six foot four,
broad in the shoulders, with the long arms of a born swordsman
and a warrior’s stance. Down his left cheek was a thick, puckered
scar, a souvenir of the death duel that had gotten him exiled from
his father’s dun in Belglaedd. Better men than Casyl’s guards had
found him nerve-wracking before.

He’d been waiting by the road about two hours when he heard the
blare of silver horns. As the farther gates opened, the guards by
the road snapped to smart attention. Walking their horses down the
causeway rode the silver daggers, sitting with the easy, arrogant
slump in their saddles that he remembered. At their head was a lad
of about fourteen, with a red, gold, and white plaid slung from his
shoulder. When Branoic started forward, one of the guards yelled
at him.

“You! Get back! That’s the marked prince, Maryn, and don’t you go
bothering the captain when he’s riding with him.”

Although it griped his soul, Branoic retreated without arguing, The
affairs of a prince were bound to take precedence over those of a
commoner. He was just about to sit back down when he heard
himself being hailed, but this time by the prince himself. He hurried
back over and clasped the lad’s stirrup as a sign of humility.

“Any man who asks has access to me.” Maryn shot a pointed
glance at the guards. “A prince is the shepherd of his people, not
one of the wolves. Remember that from now on.” He turned back
to Branoic with a distant but gracious smile. “Now. What matter do
you have to lay before me?”

“My humble thanks, Your Highness.” Branoic was practically
stammering in amazement. “But truly, all I wanted was a word with
Caradoc.”

“Well, that’s an easily granted boon. Get your horse and ride with
us a ways.”

Branoic ran to follow his order. When he fell into line beside
Caradoc, the captain gave him an oddly sly smile.

“Branoic of Belglaedd, is it? What are you doing on the long road
north?”

“Looking for you. Do you remember when last we met? You told
me you’d take me on if I wanted to ride with you. Was that just a
jest?”

“It was a jest only because I didn’t think you’d want to leave your
noble father’s court, not because I wouldn’t be glad to have you in
my troop.”

“Thanks be to the gods, then. A bastard son’s got a shorter
welcome than a silver dagger unless he minds every courtesy. I’ve
been exiled. It was over an honor duel.”

Caradoc’s eyebrows shot up.

“I heard about that. You killed the youngest son of the gwerbret of
Elrydd, wasn’t it? But why would your father turn you out over that? I
heard it was a fair fight.”

“It was, and judged so by a priest of Bel, too.” For a moment
Branoic had trouble speaking; he felt as if he could physically
choke on the injustice. “But it made my father a powerful enemy,
and so he kicked me out to appease the misbegotten gwerbret.
The whole way north, I was afraid for my life, thinking that Elrydd
would have me murdered on the road. But either I’ve thought ill of
him unjustly, or else I gave his men the slip.”

“I’d say the latter, from what I remember of His Grace. Well and
good, lad, you’re on, but you have to earn this dagger. If we see
fighting, you’ll get a full share of the pay, mind, but you’ll have to
prove yourself before I have Otho the smith make you a blade.
Agreed?”

“Agreed. And my thanks—there’s not a soul in the world to take me
in but you.”

For a few minutes they rode in silence. Branoic studied the young
prince riding some few yards ahead and wondered what it was that
made him seem so unusual. He was a handsome boy, but there
were plenty of good-looking men in the kingdom, and none of them
had his aura of glamour and power. There were other princes, too,
who had his straight-backed self-confidence and gracious ways,
but none that seemed to have ridden straight out of an old epic like
Maryn. At times, it seemed as if the very air around him crackled
and snapped with some unseen force.

“And what do you think of our lord?” Caradoc said quietly.

“Well, he makes me remember some odd gossip I heard down in
Eldidd.”

“Gossip?”

“Well, omens and suchlike.”

“Omens of what?”

In a fit of embarrassment Branoic merely shrugged.

“Out with it, lad.”

“Well, about the one true king of Deverry.”

Caradoc laughed under his breath.

“If you stick with this troop, lad, you’ll be leaving Eldidd and Pyrdon
far behind. Can you stomach that?”

“Easily. Oh, here—what are you telling me? Will we be riding all the
way to Dun Deverry some fine day?”

“We will, at that, but I can promise you a long bloody road to the
Holy City.” Caradoc turned in his saddle. “Maddyn, get up here!
We’ve got a new recruit.”

Somehow or other, Branoic had missed meeting the bard in his
previous encounters with the silver daggers. About thirty-three, he
was a slender but hard-muscled man with a mop of curly blond
hair, streaked with gray at the temples, and world-weary blue eyes.
Branoic liked him from the moment he met him. He felt in some
odd way that they must have known each other before, even
though he couldn’t remember when or how. All that afternoon,
Maddyn introduced him around, explained the rules of the troops,
found him a stall for his horse and a bunk when they returned to the
dun, and generally went out of his way to make him feel at ease. At
the evening meal they sat together, and Branoic found it easy to let
the bard do most of the talking.

The other lieutenant in the troop, Owaen, was a different matter.
They had barely finished eating when he strode over, his tankard in
hand, and Branoic found himself hating him. There was just
something about the way that the arrogant son of a bitch stood, he
decided, all posturing with his head tossed back, his free hand on
the hilt of his silver dagger.

“You!” Owaen snapped. “I see by your blazon that you used to ride
for the Eagle clan of Belglaedd.”

“I did. What’s it to you?”

“Naught, except for one small thing.” Owaen paused for an insolent
sip of ale. “You’ve got the clan device all over your gear. I want it
taken off.”

“What!?”

“You heard me.” Owaen touched the yoke of his shirt, which
sported an embroidered falcon. “Those eagles look too much like
my device. I want them gone.”

“Oh, do you now?” Slowly and carefully Branoic swung free of the
bench and stood up to face him. Dimly he was aware that the hall
had fallen silent. “I was born into that clan, you piss-proud little
mongrel. I’ve got every right to wear that device if I want, and want
it I do.”

Like dweomer Caradoc materialized in between them and laid a
restraining hand on Branoic’s sword arm.

“Listen, Owaen,” the captain said. “The lad’s gear will get lost or
broken soon enough, and the eagles fly away of their own accord.”

“That’s not soon enough.”

“I won’t have fighting in our prince’s, hall.”

Then let’s go out in the ward,” Branoic broke in, “Let’s settle it,
Owaen, with a fistfight between the two of us, and the winner gets
the device.”

“For a new man, you’re an insolent little bastard.” Then Owaen
caught the grim look on Caradoc’s face. “Oh, very well, then.
You’re on.”

Nearly everyone in the great hall trooped after them to watch when
they went out. While a couple of pages ran off for torches, the
combatants took off their sword belts and handed them to Maddyn.
Wagers went back and forth between the onlookers. When the
torches arrived, Branoic and Owaen faced off and began circling,
sizing each other up. Since Branoic had won every fistfight he’d
ever fought, he was confident—too confident. He plunged straight
in, swung, and felt Owaen block his punch, at the same moment
that a fist jammed into his stomach. Gasping he dodged back, but
Owaen was right there, dancing in from the side, clipping him on
the side of the jaw. Although the blow stung more than hurt,
Branoic went into a berserker rage, swinging back, punching,
feeling nothing but a swelling dizziness as Owaen hlocked and
danced and hit in return.

“Enough!” Caradoc’s voice sliced through the red haze
surrounding him. “I said hold and stand, by the Lord of Hell’s balls!”

Arms grabbed him and pulled him back. With a gasp for breath
Branoic tossed his head and saw blood scatter from a cut over his
left eye. Owaen was standing in front of him, his nose running
blood. He smiled as Branoic took a step back and felt his knees
buckle under him. When the men holding him lowered him gently to
the cobbles, all he could do was sit there, gasping for breath,
feeling his face and stomach throb with pain and the blood run
down his cheek.

“This had better end it,” Caradoc said. “Owaen gets the little
chickens since he’s so fond of them, but I don’t want anyone
mocking Branoic for this, either. Hear me?”

There were mutters of agreement from the other silver daggers. In
a flood of good-natured laughter the crowd broke up, settling
wagers as they drifted back to the great hall. Branoic stayed
outside; he felt so humiliated that he was sure he could never look
another man in the face again. Maddyn caught his arm and helped
him stand.

“Now look, lad, I’ve never seen a man before who could give
Owaen a bloody nose.”

“You don’t need to lie to spare my feelings.”

“I’m not. If you can keep Owaen from knocking you out cold on the
cobbles, then you’ve won a victory of sorts.”

It was so sincerely said that Branoic felt his shame lift. Stumbling
and staggering, he had to lean on Maddyn as they headed for the
barracks. About halfway there they were stopped by the old man
whom Maddyn had pointed out earlier as the prince’s councillor.
Nevyn held up the lantern he was carrying and peered into
Branoic’s bleeding face.

“I’ll tell Caudyr to get out to the barracks. This lad needs a couple
of stitches in that cut over his eye. Make sure you get him to lie
down, Maddo.”

“Oh, I’ll wager he won’t be wanting to dance the night away.”

Although Branoic tried to smile at the jest, his mouth hurt too badly.
Suddenly Nevyn looked straight into his eyes, and the gaze caught
him like a spear, impaling deep into his soul. In his muddled state
he felt as if he’d been trying to find this man all his life for some
reason that he should remember, that he absolutely had to
remember. Then the insight vanished in a flood of nausea.

“He’s going to heave,” Nevyn said calmly. “That’s all right, lad. Get
it all out.”

Branoic dropped to his knees and vomited, his stomach burning
from Owaen’s fist. Never in his life had he felt so humiliated, that
Nevyn would see him like this, but when he was finally done and
looked up to apologize, the old man was gone.

Nevyn returned to his chamber, lit the ready-laid fire with a wave of
his hand, and sat down in a comfortable chair to think about this
blond, young Eldidd man that Caradoc had brought in from the
road like a stray dog. Nevyn had recognized him the moment he’d
seen him, or rather, he knew perfectly well that he should
recognize the soul looking out through those cornflower-blue eyes.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite remember who he’d been in former
lives. While Maddyn felt well disposed to the lad, Owaen had hated
him on sight, a mutual feeling, it seemed. Logically, then, in his last
life Branoic might have been a loyal member of Gweniver’s
warband, still bearing his old grudge against the man who had tried
to rape a holy priestess. Since Nevyn had never paid any particular
attention to the warband, it was also logical that he wouldn’t
remember all its members. On the other hand, he’d felt such a
strong dweomer touch at the sight of the lad that surely he had to
be someone more important than one of Gwyn and Ricyn’s riders.

“Maybe her brother-in-law?” he said aloud. “What was his name,
anyway? Ye gods, I can’t remember that either!! I must be getting
old.”

Over the next few days, his mind at odd moments worried over the
problem of Branoic’s identity like a terrier in front of a rat cage—it
growled and snapped but couldn’t get the rat out. He did decide,
however, that the lad’s arrival was an omen of sorts, a true one
rather than another faked and theatrical glamour such as those that
he and the priests were spreading about the coming of the king.
One or two at a time, men he had trusted in lives past were coming
to help him bring peace to the kingdom.

Soon enough, he had news of an ominous kind to occupy his
attention. Some weeks past, he had sent to the temple of Bel at
Hendyr for copies of two important works on Deverry common law,
and when the messenger returned he also brought a letter from
Dannyr, the high priest down in Cerrmor, a letter that was twice
sealed and written in the ancient tongue of the Homeland few could
read.

“King Glyn has fallen ill,” Dannyr wrote. “Everyone whispers of
poison, although such seems doubtful to me. The king’s
chirurgeons have diagnosed a congestion of the liver, and truly, it
is no secret that the king has indulged himself with mead in
unseemly quantities ever since he was old enough to drink. Yet I
thought it wise to inform you of these rumors nonetheless, for we
cannot have it said that the true king poisoned one of his rivals. Any
counsel you might send would be appreciated, but for the love of
every god, write only in the ancient tongue.”

When he finished, Nevyn swore aloud with vile oaths in both the
ancient and the modern tongues. Dannyr was exactly right; no one
would believe Maryn the true king if they thought he’d used poison
to gain a throne. All the blame—if, indeed, blame there were—had
to be cast onto the other claimant up in Dun Deverry, or rather, onto
the various minions of the Boar clan that surrounded the eighteen-
year-old king. At that point Nevyn remembered Caudyr, and he
thanked the Lords of Light with all his soul for giving him the
weapons he needed to win this battle. The chirurgeon’s evidence
about the circumstances surrounding the death of the last king
would no doubt throw any suspicion firmly where it belonged.
Smiling grimly to himself, Nevyn went to his writing desk and
drafted a letter to Dannyr straightaway.

Yet when he was done, and the letter safely sealed against the off
chance that there was someone around who could read it, he sat at
his desk for a long time and considered this matter of poison. Even
though it seemed that Glyn was dying of self-induced natural
causes, there was no doubt that poison had become available in
the torn kingdoms. Who was brewing it? What if there were
followers of the dark dweomer around, waiting their chance to
plunge the country deeper into chaos? And did they know about
Maryn? He went cold all over, cursing himself for a fool, for a
proud, stupid dolt to think he could keep such a crucial secret from
those who made it their business to ferret out secrets. He would
have to see if his suspicions were correct, and if they were, mere
scrying through a fire would be useless.

He barred the door to his chamber, then lay down on his bed, lying
on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. First he calmed
his breathing, then summoned the body of light, seeing the glowing
man shape first in his mind, then pouring his will into it until it
seemed to stand beside him in the chamber. He transferred his
consciousness over, heard a rushy click, and floated in the air
looking down at his inert body. Slipping out a window, he flew up
high until he could look down on the dun, a black, dead lump in the
throbbing silver mist of elemental force arising from the lake
Although the mist made it difficult for him to hold his place—he was
forced to fight against some truly dangerous currents—still he was
glad to see it, because its presence would make scrying into the
dun difficult indeed. The lake had turned the dun into a safe
fortress on more planes than one.

Navigating carefully, Nevyn got clear of the lake’s aura and flew
over the sleeping countryside, a dull red-brown now that autumn
was sapping the energies of the plant life. In their true forms,
beautiful, ever-changing crystalline structures of colored light, the
Wildfolk swarmed around and accompanied him on his flight.
About five miles from the dun he had his first warning of evil when
the spirits paused, shuddering, then disappeared in silver flashes
and long winking-outs of light. He stopped and waited, hovering
above a patch of woodland to take imperfect shelter in its ebbing
glow. None of the Wildfolk returned. Whatever had frightened them
had done so badly. He flew up higher until the blue light was as
thick as fog, ever swirling and drifting, hiding the landscape below.
When he visualized light flowing from his fingertips, light appeared,
the volatile mind-stuff responding instantly to the form he imposed
upon it. With glowing lines of light he drew an enormous sigil of
protection in front of him. Since it would be visible for a great
distance, it was the perfect bait to draw the attention of any other
travelers on the etheric that night.

For a long while he waited there like a hunter near a snare until at
last he saw another human-shaped body of light far off from him in
the blue mists. He drew another sigil, this one of greeting and
friendship, and was rewarded by seeing his fellow traveler first go
stock-still, then turn and flee at top speed. Instinctively Nevyn
started after, only to stop himself before he’d gone far. He had no
idea of how strong the enemy was or even if he were alone. He
was certain, however, that an enemy it was. Any servant of the
Light would have answered that sigil with a similar one and then
come to meet him.

Rather than risk some foolhardy battle, Nevyn returned to the dun
and his physical body. Stretching, he sat up on the bed and looked
into the fire on the hearth.

“Bad news. I think me that someone’s spying on us.”

In alarm the spirits of fire flared up, sending a shower of sparks up
the chimney.

“If you see anything the least bit unusual, tell me.”

Within the flames the gleaming salamanders nodded their
agreement. Nevyn got up, took his heavy cloak, and left the
chamber. He went up the spiral staircase to the last landing of the
broch, where a trapdoor gave access to the roof. After a quick
glance round to make sure that no servants were there to see this
eccentric behavior on the part of the learned councillor, he pried it
up and climbed out onto the roof. He had a strange sort of guard to
post.

First he raised his arms high and called upon the power of the Holy
Light that stands behind all the gods. Its visible symbol came to
him in a glowing spear that pierced him from head to foot. For a
moment he stood motionless, paying it homage, then stretched his
arms out shoulder high, bringing the light with them to form a shaft
across his chest. As he stood within the cross, the light swelled,
strengthening him, then slowly faded of its own will. When it was
gone, he lowered his arms, then visualized a sword of glowing light
in his right hand. Once the image lived apart from his will, he circled
the roof, walking deosil, and used the sword to draw a huge ring of
golden light in the sky. As the ring settled to earth, it sheeted out,
forming a burning wall around the entire dun. Three times around
he went, until the wall lived on the etheric of its own will.

At each ordinal point, he put a seal in the shape of a five-pointed
star made of blue fire. Once the four directions were sealed, he
spread the light until it was not a ring but a hemisphere over the
dun like a canopy. He made two last seals at zenith and nadir, then
withdrew the force from the astral sword until it vanished. To signify
the end of the working, he stamped three times on the roof. The
dome, however, remained visible—that is, visible to someone with
dweomer sight. Although he would have to renew the seals five
times a day, whenever the astral tides changed, everyone within
the dome would be safe from evil, prying eyes.

Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, for the air nipped with the
promise of winter, he went to the wall and idly looked down into the
ward. Someone was walking there, and the way he moved was
suspicious: taking a few steps, pausing to look carefully round,
then walking slowly on again. With his mind full of thoughts of
spies, Nevyn left the roof and rushed down the inside staircase so
fast that he nearly ended his physical existence there and then.
When he ran out into the ward, the mysterious figure was no longer
in sight. Muttering under his breath, he summoned Wildfolk, among
them a large mottled gnome who had indeed seen the prowler.
The gnome led him straight around the main broch and toward the
stables with absolutely no sign of fear, which made Nevyn think
he’d been overly dramatic to assume that the dark dweomer had a
spy right in the dun. Sure enough, when he saw his quarry, he
realized it was Branoic. Even in the dark the lad’s sheer size and
the straight-backed way he stood were recognizable.

“Good eve, lad. Taking the air?”

“In a way, Councillor. I . . . uh well . . . I thought I saw a fire.”

“Ye gods! Where?”

“Well, I was wrong about it, you see.” The lad sounded profoundly
embarrassed. I’m cursed glad now that I didn’t go waking everyone
up. I must have just been having a bad dream.”

“Indeed? Tell me about it.”

“Well, since I’m the new man I got the bunk right by the drafty
window in our barracks. I dreamt I was awake and looking out, and
the dun walls were blazing with fire. So I started to shout the alarm,
but then I remembered that this dun has stone walls, not a wooden
palisade or suchlike. Right then I must have woken up. But I lay
there thinking about it, and it nagged at me, so I grabbed my boots
and came to look around. And as soon as I did, I realized that it
had to be a dream, but it was a demon-sent vivid one, good sir.”

Nevyn, was taken completely aback. Obviously this young lout of a
warrior had a touch of the dweomer, and in his dream state had
seen Nevyn sealing the walls. Yet none of the men in the charmed
circle of his Wyrd had ever shown such talents. By the hells, he
thought, and irritably; just who is he?

“Tell me, do you often have dreams like that?”

“Well, sometimes. I mean, I’ve never dreamt about fires, before,
but at times I have these dreams that seem so real, I’d swear I was
wide awake. Every now and then . . . ” He let his voice trail away.

“Every now and again you dream somewhat that turns out to be
true.”

With a gulp of breath, Branoic stepped sharply back.

“If my lordship will excuse me,” he stammered. “I’d best be gone.
It’s freezing out here.”

He turned and frankly ran from the man who’d discovered his
secret. Young dolt! Nevyn thought, but with some affection. He
would have to talk some more with Branoic, no matter who he . . .
and then he saw it, what had been right under his nose but so
unwelcome that he’d kept it at bay for days.

“It can’t be! The Lords of Wyrd wouldn’t do this to me! Would
they?”

And yet he was remembering his Brangwen’s last incarnation,
when as Gweniver she’d dreamt of becoming the best warrior in all
Deverry. In this life, the Lords of Wyrd had given her a body fit to
fulfill that dream and then, or so he hoped, finally put it to rest.
While every soul is at root of one polarity, which translates into the
sex of the physical body, each spends part of its lifetimes in
bodies of the opposite sex in order to have a full experience of the
worlds of form. Nevyn had simply been refusing to see that such a
time had come for Brangwen, his lovely, delicate, little Gwennie as
he still thought of her. For all he knew, she was working out part of
her Wyrd that had nothing to do with him personally. Whatever the
reason, she’d returned to him just as he’d known she would, but as
Branoic of Belglaedd.

As he paced back and forth in the dark, silent ward, Nevyn was sick
with weariness. He could see a dark message for himself in her
soul’s choice of a body. Deep in his heart he’d been hoping that
she would love him again, that they would have a warm, human
relationship, not merely the cold discipline of apprentice and
master, Apparently such a love was forbidden; he saw Branoic as a
warning, that he was to teach the dweomer to the inner soul and
forget about the outer form and its emotions. As much as it ached
his heart, he would accept the will of the Great Ones, just as he
had accepted so much else in the long years since he’d sworn his
rash vow.

After all, he had work on hand so important that his own feelings,
even his own Wyrd, seemed utterly insignificant. Thinking about the
battle ahead he could lay aside his personal griefs and feel hope
kindling in his heart. Danger lay ahead, and great griefs, but
afterward the Light would prevail again in the shattered kingdom.

On the morrow, a cool but sunny day, Maddyn went for a stroll
round the edge of the lake. He found a warm spot in the shelter of
a leafless willow tree and sat down to tune his harp. It had never
been an expensive instrument, and now it was battered and nicked
from its long years of riding behind his saddle, yet it had the
sweetest tone of any harp in the kingdom. Although many a bard in
many a great lord’s hall had offered him gold for it, he would rather
have parted with a leg, and although those same bards had
begged him to tell them his secret, he never had. After all, would
they have believed him if he’d told the truth, that the Wildfolk had
enchanted it for him? He often saw them touching it, stroking it all
over like a beloved cat, and every time they did, it sang with a
renewed, heart-aching sweetness.

As he tuned the strings that day by the lake, the Wildfolk came to
listen, appearing out of the air, rising out of the water, sylph and
sprite and gnome, clustering round the man that they considered
their own personal bard.

“I think it’s time I made up a song about Prince Maryn. I take it you
think he’s the true king, too. I’ve seen you riding on his saddle and
clustering round him in the hall.”

They all nodded, turning as solemn as he’d ever seen them until an
undine could stand the quiet no longer. Dripping with illusionary
water, she reached over and pinched a green gnome as hard as
she could. He slapped her, and they tussled, kicking and biting,
until Maddyn yelled at them to stop. All sulks, they sat down again
as far apart from each other as they could.

“That’s better. Maybe I’ll sing about Dilly Blind first. Shall I?”

With little nods and grins, they crowded close. Over the years
Maddyn had elaborated the simple folk songs about Diily Blind and
the Wildfolk into something of an epic, adding verse after verse
and clarifying the various stories. He had taught his mock-saga to
bards in dun where there were noble children until half of Eldidd
knew the song. At moments like these, when the wars seemed far
away, it amused him to think that a children’s song would outlive
him, passed down from bard to bard when he was long since in his
warrior’s grave.

When the song was done—and it was a good twenty minutes
long—most of the Wildfolk slipped away, but a few lingered, his
blue sprite among them, sitting close beside him as he watched
the ripples in the lake, the harp silent in his hands. He remembered
that other lake up in Cantrae, ten years or so ago now, that had
tormented his thirst as he rode dying. It had been about the same
time of day, he decided, because the sun had rippled it with gold
flecks just as it was doing to Drwloc in front of him. He could see in
his mind the dark reeds and the white heron, and he could feel,
too, the burning thirst and the pain, the sickening buzz of the flies
and his dark despair.

“It was worth it,” he remarked to the sprite. “It brought me to Nevyn,
after all.”

She nodded and patted him gently on the knee. Maddyn smiled,
thinking of what lay ahead. There was not the least doubt in his
mind that Nevyn had found the man born to be king of all Deverry.
He believed with his heart and soul that the young prince had been
handpicked by the gods to reunite the kingdom. Soon he and the
other silver daggers would ride behind Maryn when he set out to
claim his birthright. The only thing Maddyn wondered about was
when the time would come. As the sunlight faded from the lake,
and the night wind began to pick up, it seemed to him that his entire
life had led to this point, when he, Caradoc, Owaen, and all the rest
of the men in his troop were poised and ready, like arrows nocked
in the bows of a line of archers. Soon would come the order to
draw and loose. Soon, he told himself, truly, soon enough.

He jumped to his feet and called out, a peal of his berserk laughter
ringing across the lake toward the sunset. The strings of his harp
sounded softly in answer, trembling in the wind. Grinning to
himself, he slung the harp over his shoulder and started back to the
dun, glowing with warm firelight and torchlight in the gathering night.



Part Two
Summer, 1065

The Lords of Wyrd do not make a man’s life as neatly as a master
potter turns out bowls, each perfectly shaped and suitable to its
purpose. In the ebb and flow of birth and death are strange
currents, eddies, and vortices, most of which are beyond the
power of the Great Ones to control.

—The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

ONE

The sound of rain drumming on the ward outside echoed
pleasantly in the great hall. In her chair by the fire, Aunt Gwerna
was drowsing over her needlework. Occasionally she would look
up and answer a dutiful “true-spoken” to one of her husband’s
rhetorical questions. Perryn’s uncle, Benoic, Tieryn Pren Cludan,
was in one of his expostulatory moods. He sat straight in his chair,
one heavy hand gripping a tankard, the other emphasizing his
points by slamming the chair arm. Benoic was going quite heavily
gray, but he was still as strong-muscled as many a younger man,
and as strong in the lungs, too.

“It’s these worm-riddled pikemen,” he bellowed. “Battle’s not the
same with common-born men fighting in it. They should be
guarding the carts and naught else. Cursed near blasphemous, if
you ask me.

“True-spoken,” Perryn said dutifully.

“Hah! More of this wretched courtly mincing around, that’s all it is.
Trust the blasted southerners to come up with somewhat like this.
It’s no wonder the kingdom’s not what it was.”

While Benoic soothed his feelings with a long swallow of ale,
Perryn tried to unravel the connection between spearing a man off
his horse and the fine manners of the king’s court.

“You young lads nowadays!” his uncle went on. “Now, if you’d only
ridden in some of the battles I did at your age, then you’d
understand what life here in Cerrgonney means. Look at you, lad,
riding around without a copper to your name. Ye gods! You should
be getting yourself a place in a warband and working at rising to
captain.”

“Now here, Perro,” Gwerna broke in. “You’re welcome at our table
anytime you pass by.”

“Course he is, woman!” Benoic snapped. “That’s not the point. He
should be making somewhat of himself, that’s all. I don’t know
what’s wrong with you, lad, and your cursed cousin Nedd is even
worse. At least there’s some excuse for you.”

“Oh, er, my thanks.”

“But Nedd’s got dun and demesne both, and all he does is ride
around hunting all day. By the Lord of Hell’s balls!”

“Now, my love,” Gwerna interceded again. “He and Perryn are both
young yet.”

“Twenty, both of them! Old enough to marry and settle down.”

“Well, here, Uncle, I can hardly take a wife when I don’t even have
a house to put her in.”

“That’s what I mean. There’s some excuse for you.”

Perryn smiled feebly. Although he was a member of the northern
branch of the ancient and conjoint Wolf clan and was thus entitled
to be called a lord, he was also the fifth son of a land-poor family,
which meant that he owned naught but the title and a long string of
relatives to play unwilling host when he turned up at their gates.

“Are you riding Nedd’s way when you leave us?” Benoic asked.

“I am. On the morrow, I was thinking.”

“Then tell him I want to hear of him marrying, and soon.”

The next morning, Perryn rose at dawn and went to the stable long
before the dun came awake, He brought out his dapple-gray
gelding, a fine horse with some Western Hunter blood in him, and
began saddling up. On his travels he packed an amazing amount
of gear: two pairs of saddlebags, a bulging bedroll, a small iron
kettle, and at his saddle peak a woodcutter’s ax slung where most
lords carried a shield. Just as he was finishing, Benoic came out to
look the laden horse over.

“By the asses of the gods, you look like a misbegotten peddler!
Why don’t you take a pack horse if you’re going to live on the roads
this way?”

“Oh er, good idea.”

With a snort, Benoic ran his hand down the gray’s neck.

“Splendid creature. Where did a young cub like you scrape up the
coin for him?”

“Oh, er, ah, well.” Perryn needed a lie fast, “Won him in a dice
game.”

“Might have known! Ye gods, you, and your blasted cousin are
going to drive me to the Otherlands before my time.”

When he left the dun, Perryn set off down the west-running road in
search of a pack horse. Around him stretched the fields of
Benoic’s demesne, pale green with young barley. Here and, there
farmers trotted through the crops to shoo away the crows, who
rose with indignant caws and a clatter of wings. Soon, though, the
fields gave way as the road rose into the rocky hills, dark with
pines. Perryn turned off the muddy track that passed for a road and
worked his way through the widely spaced silent trees. Once he
was in wild country, he had no need of roads to find his way.

Early in the afternoon, he reached his goal, a mountain meadow in
a long valley that belonged to a certain Lord Nertyn, one of his
uncle’s vassals but a man Perryn particularly disliked. Out in the tall
grass twenty head of Nertyn’s horses grazed peacefully, guarded
by the stallion of the herd, a sturdy chestnut who stood a good
sixteen hands high. When Perryn walked toward the herd, the
stallion swung his way with a vicious snort, and the others threw up
their heads and watched, poised to run. Perryn began talking to the
stallion, a soft clucking noise, a little murmur of meaningless sound
until the horse relaxed and allowed Perryn to stroke his neck. At
that, the rest of the herd returned to their feed.

“I need to borrow one of your friends,” Perryn said. “I hope you
don’t mind. I’ll take splendid care of him.”

As if he agreed, the stallion tossed his head, then ambled away.
Perryn picked out a bay gelding and began patting its neck and
combing its mane with his fingers.

“Aren’t you sick of that fat lord who owns you? Come along and
see somewhat of the road.”

When the gelding turned its head, Perryn smiled at it in a particular
way he had, a deep smile that made him feel slightly cool, as some
of his warmth was flowing out to the recipient of the smile. With a
soft snort, the bay leaned its head against his chest. He patted it
for a few more minutes, then walked away, the bay following close
behind. Although Perryn honestly didn’t understand why, once he
got a few minutes alone with a horse, the animal would follow him
anywhere without halter or rope. It was a useful trick. Whenever his
coin ran low, he would simply take a horse from someone he
disliked and sell it to one of the dishonest traders he knew.
Because of his noble blood, no one ever suspected him of being
the worst horse thief in the northern provinces. He’d often stolen a
horse from a cousin one week, then ridden back the next to
express surprise and sympathy at the loss. Only Benoic and Nedd
were safe from his raiding.

That night, Perryn and the two horses made a comfortable camp in
a forest clearing, but the next day they had to return to the road or
go miles out of their way around a steep hill. They had barely
reached the track when it began to rain. Perryn kept riding until the
mud made traveling difficult for the horses, then turned a little way
into the forest and dismounted. In the imperfect shelter of the
pines he crouched down between the horses and waited for the
storm to slack. It was uncomfortable, of course, with his clothes
stuck to him and water running into his boots, but he ignored the
discomfort, the way forest deer ignored the rain, browsing in the
wet when they were hungry. If someone had asked him what he
thought about during those two cold hours, he wouldn’t have been
able to say. He was merely aware of things: the rain, the smell of
pine, the slick-wet trunks and pale green ferns. Every sound
brought a message: a squirrel scuttling into its hole, a deer moving
cautiously far away, a stream running close by. Eventually the rain
stopped. By the time he reached Nedd’s dun, he was dry again.
Indeed, he’d quite forgotten that he’d been caught by the storm.

The dun stood on a muddy hillock behind a crumbling stone wall
and a pair of rusty iron-bound gates that squeaked like a demon
when Perryn shoved them open. Instead of a broch, Nedd had a
stone round house with a roof that leaked all round the edge and
two hearths that smoked badly. Although there were the usual
barracks over the stables for a warband, the roof there was so bad
that Nedd had simply moved his ten men into the half round of a
room that passed for his great hall. They slept on straw
mattresses, laid any which way in the dry spots out in the middle of
the room. Nedd, as befitted his rank, had an actual bed by one
hearth. Scattered through this disorder of moldy straw were also
two tables, benches, a collection of leather buckets for drips, and
one elegant chair, carved with the Wolf blazon. When Perryn came
in after stabling his horses, he found his cousin sitting in the chair
with his feet on one of the tables.

“By the gods,” Nedd said with a grin. “You’ve come like an omen,
cousin. Here, fetch yourself some ale. There’s an open barrel by
the other hearth.”

Since their mothers were sisters, the cousins looked much alike.
They both had flaming red hair, freckles, and bright blue eyes, but
while Nedd was a good-looking man, the most charitable
description of Perryn would have been “nondescript.” Tankard in
hand, he joined Nedd at his table. At the other, the warband were
drinking and dicing.

“Why have I come like an omen?”

“You’re just in time to ride to war with me.” Nedd smiled as if he
offering a splendid gift “I’ve got this ally to the west, Tieryn
Graemyn—you’ve met him, haven’t you—and he’s sent out a call
for aid. I’m supposed to bring him twelve men, but I’ve only got so
I’ve got to scrape up the other two somewhere. Come along,
cousin! It’ll be good sport, and you can spare me the cost of a
silver dagger.”

Seeing no way out of it, Perryn sighed. Nedd had fed him for any a
winter, and besides, a noble lord was supposed to respond
joyously to the call for war. He forced out a smile.

“Oh, gladly,” he said. “And what’s the war about?”

“Cursed if I know. I just got the message today.”

“Can you spare me a shield?”

“Of course. Ye gods, Perro, don’t tell me you ride without one?”

“Er, ah, well, I do at that. They take up too much space on your
saddle.”

“You should have been born a woodcutter, I swear it!”

Perryn rubbed his chin and considered the suggestion.

“Just jesting,” Nedd said hurriedly. “Well, I hope a silver dagger
turns up soon. There’s always a lot of them in Cerrgonney. We’ll
wait a couple of days, then ride, even if we’re one short. Better that
than riding in after the fighting’s over.”

The gods, however, apparently decided that if Lord Nedd was
going to march to war, it might as well be straightaway. On the
morrow, not long after breakfast, the kitchen gardener ambled in to
announce that there was a silver dagger at the gates.

“And he’s got a woman with him, too,” the old man said. “I feel
cursed sorry for her kin.”

“Is she pretty?” Nedd said.

“She is.”

Nedd and Perryn shared a small smile.

“Splendid,” Nedd said. “Send them in, will you?”

In a few minutes the silver dagger and his woman came in, both
travel-stained and roughly dressed, the lass in men’s clothing with
a sword and silver dagger of her own. Although her blond hair was
cropped short like a lad’s, she was not merely pretty but beautiful,
with wide blue eyes and a delicate mouth.

“Good morrow, my lords.” The silver dagger made them a courtly
bow. “My name’s Rhodry of Aberwyn, and I heard in your village
that you’ve got a hire for the likes of me.”

“I do,” Nedd said. I can’t offer you more than a silver piece a week,
but if you serve me well in the war, I’ll shelter you and your lass all
winter.”

Rhodry glanced up at the roof, where sunlight broke through in long
shafts, then down at the floor, where Nedd’s dogs snored in
mildewed straw.

“Winter’s a long way away, my lord. We’ll be riding on.”

“Oh well,” Nedd said hastily. “I can squeeze out two silver pieces a
week, and there’ll be battle loot, too.”

“Done then. His lordship is to be praised for his generosity.”

For Jill’s sake, Lord Nedd gave his silver dagger an actual
chamber to sleep in instead of a mattress out in the great hall,
Although the wickerwork walls were filthy, it did have a door. Rather
than sit on the straw of the floor, which seemed to be inhabited, Jill
perched on top of an unsteady wooden chest and watched as
Rhodry cleaned his chain mail. As he ran an old rag through the
rings, to wipe away the rust, he was frowning in the candlelight.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

“That old saying: as poor as a Cerrgonney lord.”

”Lord Nedd’s a marvel and a half, isn’t he? Are we actually going to
stay here all summer and the winter, too?”

“Of course not. I’d rather sleep beside the roads. Are you sure
you’ll fare well enough when I leave you behind?”

“Oh no doubt the kennel will be comfortable enough when the
dogs are all out of it. How long do you think the war will last?”

“War?” He looked up with a grin. “I wouldn’t dignify it with the word,
my love. If Nedd’s allies are anything like him, no doubt there’ll be a
lot of shouting and skirmishing, and then an end to it.”

“I hope you’re right. I feel danger coming in this.”’

His smile gone, he laid the mail aside.

“More of your wretched dweomer?”

“Just that, but it’s not battle danger, exactly. I’m not even sure what
I do mean. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.”

“I wish you hadn’t, truly.” He hesitated, for a long moment, staring
down at the straw. “I . . . ah, by the black ass of the Lord of Hell,
let’s just forget it.”

“I know what you want to know. I don’t see your death coming. Ah,
ye gods, if ever I did, don’t you think I’d beg you not to ride to
war?”

“And, what good would that do? When my Wyrd comes, upon, me
I’ll die as easily from a fever or a fall from a horse as from a sword.
Let me beg a boon from you, my love. If ever you see my death,
say not a word about it.”

“I won’t, then. I promise.”

With a nod of thanks, he got up, stretching, and looked down at the
mail glittering in the candlelight. He was so beautiful that she felt
like weeping, that he would have to risk his life in the petty feuds of
men like Lord Nedd. As she always did on the nights before he
was about to ride to war, she wondered if he would live to ride back
to her.

“Let’s lie down together, my love,” he said. “It’s going to be a long
while before I sleep in your bed again.”

Once she was lying in his arms, Jill felt the wondering grow to a
cold stab, closer and closer to fear. She held him tight and let his
kisses drown it away.

Early on the morrow, the warband made a sloppy muster out in the
ward. Jill stood in the doorway and watched as the men drew their
horses up in a straggling line behind the two lords. The four men at
the rear, including Rhodry, led pack horses laden with provisions
because Nedd didn’t own an oxcart and couldn’t have spared the
farmers to drive it if he had. Just as it seemed the line was finally
formed, someone would yell that he’d forgotten something and
dash back to the house or the stables. At the very last moment,
Nedd discovered that Perryn didn’t own a pot helm. A servant was
dispatched to the stables, which apparently did double duty as an
armory, to look for one.

Perryn stood rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while
Nedd berated him for a woodcutter and worse. When Jill caught
Rhodry’s eye, he sighed and glanced heavenward to call the gods
to witness Perryn’s eccentricity. She had never seen a noble lord
like Perryn, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over him.
He was tall, but slender and ill proportioned, with narrow shoulders,
long arms, and big, heavy hands out of scale to the rest of him.
Although his face wasn’t truly ugly, his eyes were enormous, his
mouth thin, and his nose on the flat side. When he walked, he all
the grace of a stork strutting.

When the servant came back with a rusty helm, Nedd announced
that if anyone had forgotten anything else, he’d cursed well have to
do without it. Jill gave Rhodry one last kiss, then ran to the gates to
wave the warband out. In a disorderly line they trotted down the hill,
then into the road, disappearing to the west in a spatter of mud.
With a prayer to the Goddess to keep her man safe, Jill turned
back to the dun and the long tedium of waiting for news.

The small demesne of Tieryn Graemyn lay three days’ ride to the
west of Nedd’s dun. The road ran narrow through sharp hills and
scrubby pine, mostly uninhabited, until some ten miles from the
tieryn’s dun the warband came to a small village, Spaebrwn, one of
three that paid Graemyn allegiance. As the warband watered their
horses at the village well, Perryn noticed the townsfolk watching
with frightened eyes. A Cerrgonney war was like a Cerrgonney
storm, blowing the thatch from cottage and lord’s manor alike.

Late in the afternoon they reached Graemyn’s dun, set up on a low
hill out in the middle of a stretch of fairly flat pastureland bordered
by trees. The big gates swung open to admit them into a ward
crowded with men and horses. As Nedd’s warband dismounted,
stableboys ran to take their horses and lead them away into the
general confusion. The tieryn himself strolled out to greet these
reinforcements. A grizzled dark-haired man, he bulged with
muscles under his linen shirt.

“I’m truly glad to see you, Nedd,” he remarked. “Your twelve brings
us up to what strength we’re going to have.”

Under the tieryn’s firm voice there was an anxious edge that made
Perryn apprehensive, and for good reason, as it turned out at the
council of war in the great hall. Even with Nedd and three other
allies, Graemyn had only some two hundred men. Ranged against
them were Tieryn Naddryc and his allies with close to three
hundred. The dispute concerned two square miles of borderland
between their demesnes, but it had grown far beyond the land at
stake. Although Graemyn was willing to submit the matter to the
arbitration of the high king, Naddryc had refused the offer some
weeks past. In a subsequent skirmish between mounted patrols,
Naddryc’s only son had been killed.

“So he wants my blood,” Graemyn finished up. “I’ve stripped the
countryside to provision the dun. You never know what’s going to
happen when a man gets it into his head to start a blood feud.”

The other lords all nodded sagely, while Perryn devoutly wished
that he had been born a woodcutter. A feud could rage for years,
and here he was, honor-bound to ride in it for Nedd’s sake.

After the meal, the lords gathered round the honor table and
studied a rough map of eastern Cerrgonney. They drank over it,
argued over it, and yelled at each other while Perryn merely
listened. He was part of the council only by courtesy to his birth; he
had no warband, he had no right of decision. He stayed until the
lords adopted Nedd’s plan of making a surprise attack on enemy’s
line of march, then slipped away, getting a candle lantern from a
page and taking it out to the stables. When he found his dapple
gray, he hung the lantern on a nail in the wall of the stall and sat up
on the manger. The gray leaned his face into Perryn’s chest with a
small snort. He gently scratched its ears.

“Well, my friend, I wonder if I’ll live to see the winter, I truly do.”

Blissfully unaware that there was such a thing as a future to
consider, the gray nibbled on his shirt.

“At least you’ll be safe and out of it. That’s somewhat to be glad
about.”

If Cerrgonney men had fought on horseback, as warriors did in
most of Deverry, no amount of honor or obligation would have
induced Perryn to ride to war, but since up in that grain-poor
province horses were too valuable to slaughter, Cerrgonney men
rode to battle but dismounted to fight. Yet even though he knew his
friend would be safe, Perryn’s heart ached at the thought of battle.
As he did every time he was forced to ride to war, he wondered if
he were simply a coward. Doubtless every lord in the province
would have considered him one if they’d discovered his true
feelings about honor and battle glory, which seemed far less
important to him than fishing in a mountain stream or sitting in a
meadow and watching the deer graze. At times like these, the old
proverb haunted him: what does a man have worth having but his
honor? A good bit more, to Perryn’s way of thinking, but he could
never voice that thought to anyone, not even Nedd, no matter how
much he simply wanted to ride away from killing men he didn’t
know in a war that never should have happened in the first place.

“Well, my friend, my Wyrd will come when it comes, I suppose. I
wonder if horses have Wyrds? It’s a pity you can’t talk. We could
have a splendid chat about that, couldn’t we?”

Suddenly he fell silent, hearing someone open the stable door. His
silver dagger gleaming in the lantern light, Rhodry strode briskly
down the line of stalls.

“Oh, it’s you, my lord. The tieryn’s captain detailed me to keep an
eye on the stables, you see, and I heard someone talking.” Rhodry
glanced around puzzled. “Isn’t someone else here?”

“Oh, er, ah, well, I was just talking to my horse.”

Rhodry’s eyes glazed with a suppressed mockery that Perry was
used to seeing on men’s faces.

“I see. My lord, can I ask you if we’re riding out tomorrow?”

“We are. Going to make a flank attack, give them a bit of a
surprise.”

Rhodry smiled in honest pleasure at the news. He was handsome,
strong, and eager for battle, just the sort of man that Perryn, was
supposed to be and the type who always despised him. Perryn
wasn’t sure if he envied or hated the silver dagger—both, he
decided later.

On the morrow, the army mustered before dawn in a ward bright
with iaring torchlight. The men were silent, the lords grim, the
horses restless, stamping, tossing their heads at every wink of light
on helm and sword. As usual, Nedd’s warband was the last to take
their place in line, shouting at each other and squabbling over who
would ride with whom. As he took his place beside his cousin,
Perryn noticed Rhodry, smiling to himself as if he were gloating
over a beautiful woman.

“We’re going to cut straight across country, Nedd said. “We’ll need
you to scout, Perro.”

“No doubt. None of you could find your way through a copse to a
mountain, I swear it.”

“Even woodcutters have their uses.”

Perryn merely shrugged. The restlessness of the horses was
making him wonder if disaster lay ahead of them; sometimes
animals could tell such things, in his experience. At last Graemyn
blew his silver horn. As the first dawn silvered the sky, the gates
swung open. With his sword raised high, the tieryn rode out, his
personal warband clattering behind him, four abreast, the line
snaking out and down the hill. Suddenly Perryn heard distant war
cries, as if someone were racing to meet Graemyn beyond the
walls. The men nearest the gates screamed in rage; the horns rang
out to arm and charge. Naddryc had prepared a surprise of his
own.

The ward turned into a shoving, shouting chaos as men
dismounted, grabbing shields and helms, and rushed out the
gates. Perryn swung down, then gave the gray one last pat.

“Farewell, and pray to Epona that we meet again.”

Then he ran after Nedd and out the gates. The battle was
sweeping halfway up the hill, a raging, ragged swirl of men and
riderless horses as Naddryc’s men struggled up while Graemyn’s
tried to shove them back. In the dust pluming upward Perryn lost
sight of Nedd almost at once. A burly fellow with an enemy blazon
of blue and yellow on his shield charged him and swung in hard
from the right. Perryn flung up his shield, caught the blow and thrust
it away, then swung back, slapping his opponent hard on the thigh.
Cursing, the man stumbled; Perryn got a hard cut on his sword
arm. Bleeding, the man withdrew, feinting, parrying more than he
swung. As he followed, Perryn realized that the enemy tide was
ebbing back down the hill. Screaming war cries, Graemyn’s men
swept after. We should hold this higher ground, Perryn thought. But
it was too late, and no one would have taken orders from him, even
if he’d tried to give them.

Down on the flat the battle re-formed itself into random knots and
mobs of fighting. As Perryn ran toward the closest one, he
suddenly heard laughter off to one side, a bubbling sort of chuckle
that rose now and then to a howl over the smack and clang of
swords striking shield and mail. It was such an eerie sound that for
a moment he paused, looking this way and that to try to find the
source. That brief curiosity cost him dear. At a shout behind him he
turned to see three men running straight for him, and they all
carried the blue-and-yellow shield. With a yelp of terror, Perryn
flung up his shield and sword barely in time to parry the two hard
blows that swung in on him.

Although the third man dodged past and ran on, the other two
enemies closed in for a quick if dishonorable kill. As he
desperately dodged and parried, Perryn heard the laughter again,
shrieking, sobbing, ever louder, until all at once Rhodry lunged at
the man attacking from the right and killed him with two quick
slashes, back and forth with a gesture like waving away a fly.
Gasping for breath, Perryn took a wild swing at the other blue-and-
yellow, missed, nearly tripped, and regained his balance just in
time to see the man fall, spitted in the back through the joining rf
his mail. Rhodry jerked his sword free with a shake to scatter drops
of blood.

“My thanks, silver dagger,” Penyn gasped.

For an answer Rhodry merely laughed, and his eyes were so
glittering-wild that for a moment Perryn was afraid he’d turn on him.
Yelling at the top of their lungs, five men from Nedd’s warband ran
up and swept Rhodry and Perryn along toward a hard knot of
fighting around Graemyn himself. Although Perryn tried to keep up,
the entire line was swirling and breaking, falling back around him as
Naddryc’s superior numbers began to tell. He got cut off as two of
his allies shoved past him, running for their lives. When he ran for a
man he thought was one of Nedd’s, the fellow swung his way and
raised a shield marked with the red acorns of another enemy
warband. Swearing, Perryn charged, but something struck him
from behind.

Fire stabbed, then spread down his shoulder. All at once, his
fingers were loosening on the sword’s hilt of their own will. He
swirled around and caught a strike on his shield, but when he tried
to raise his right arm, his fingers dropped the sword, Then he felt
the blood, sheeting down his arm and pouring into his gauntlet. As
the enemy pressed in, Perryn brought up the shield like a weapon
and swung hard, as he dodged back, stumbling over uncertain
ground. Yet there were enemies behind him.

With a shout of desperation, Perryn charged and rammed the
shield full strength into the enemy in front of him. Taken utterly off
guard by this suicidal manoeuvre, the man slipped and fell
backward. A startled Perryn fell on top of him, with his shield
caught between them and his whole weight slamming it down. The
enemy’s head jerked back, and he lay still, whether dead or merely
stunned Perryn neither knew nor cared. He scrambled up,
shamelessly threw his shield, and ran for the dun—but only for a
few yards. Suddenly he realized that the battle was lost, that the
field belonged to the enemy, that the last of his comrades were
fleeing through the gates just ahead of a line of blue-and-yellow
shields. He fell to his knees and watched as the gates swung shut.
Enemies ran past, shouting to one another.

“They’re going to stand a siege—whoreson bastards—get to the
postern!”

No one even looked at the half-dead warrior slumped on the
ground, It occurred to Perryn that without his shield, no one would
even recognize him as an enemy in this confusion . . . His head
spinning, he staggered to his feet and grabbed a sword with his left
hand from a nearby corpse, then took off, trotting after the others
and yelling, “To the postern!” While he didn’t give a pig’s fart about
Graemyn, Nedd was trapped in the dun in a half-provisioned siege
with no one to lift it. Graemyn had called in every ally he had for this
battle.

In the dust-smeared, milling mob, the ruse worked well. He kept
with them for about twenty yards, then fell back and ran for the
trees edging the battlefield. If anyone even saw him go, they had
no time to chase after. Among the pines, neatly tethered, were
Waddryc’s horses with only a couple of servants to guard them.
Perryn charged the nearest horse handler, who promptly broke and
ran. In one smooth slash Perryn cut a tether rope, threw the sword
away, and grabbed the reins of a solid chestnut gelding.

“Good horse. Please help me.”

The chestnut stood patiently as Perryn hauled himself into the
saddle. Keeping to the trees, he rode away from the battle.
Although every step the horse took made the world swim in front of
him and his dangling right arm throb, he bit his lower lip until it bled
and kept riding. He had to get news to Benoic. That was the only
thought he allowed himself to have. When he reached the road, he
kicked the horse to a gallop and stayed on by sheer force of will.
Gallop, trot, gallop, trot, walk—on and on he went, reminding
himself that he could get help in Spaebrwn. Although he wondered
at times if he’d live to reach the village, the blood was drying on his
arm, not welling up fresh.

Just before noon, he crested the last hill above Spaebrwn and
pulled the horse to a halt. For a long time he stared down at the
glowing spread of ashes and charred timbers, half hidden under a
drift of smoke. The breeze brought with it a sickening smell, too
much like roasted pork. Some of the villagers had waited too long
to flee.

“Ah ye gods, our Naddryc takes his revenge a bit too seriously, if
you ask me.”

The gelding snorted and tossed its head, spooked by the smell of
burning. Perryn urged him on, skirted the ruins, and turned back
into the pine forest. Even though he could neither raise his arm nor
move his fingers, he was going to have to try to ride back to
Nedd’s dun on his own. By taking side trails through wild country,
he could shorten the distance to some forty miles. Once they were
well among the trees, he paused the horse again and thought of
the dun, pictured it clearly in his mind, and remembered all the safe
times he’d enjoyed Nedd’s company there. Then he went on,
heading straight for it. Every time he started drifting from the most
direct path, he felt a deep discomfort, something like a fear or
anxiety, pricking at him. As soon as he turned the right way, the
discomfort vanished. Although he didn’t understand it in the least,
this trick had led him back to places he thought of as home many a
time in the past.

Perryn picked his way through the forest until sundown, then
dismounted and led his horse through the dark for a few miles
more, stumbling only to force himself up again, until they reached a
small stream. Slacking the horse’s bit with his left hand seemed to
take an eternity. Finally he got it free and let the gelding drink.

“My apologies, but there’s no oats.”

In a golden mist the forest was spinning slowly around him. He sat
down just before he fainted.

Like sheep in a snowstorm, the remains of the army huddled in
Graemyn’s great hall that night, eighty-odd men in decent shape,
twenty-some badly wounded. Rhodry sat on the floor with the last
six men of Nedd’s warband. No one spoke as they watched the
table of honor across the hall, where Graemyn and his allies talked,
heads together, faces drawn and tight-lipped in the torchlight.
Frightened serving lasses crept through the warband and doled out
scant rations of watered ale. By the servants’ hearth, a young page
sat weeping, wondering, most like, if he’d ever see his mother
again. Finally Nedd left the honor table and limped, back, to his
own men. He slid down the wall rather than sat until, he could slump
half upright in the straw.

“You should be lying down, my lord,” Rhodry said.

“The blasted cut’s not that bad.” Nedd laid his hand on his thigh, as
if trying to hide the bloody bandage.

“My apologies, my lord.”

“Oh, and you have mine. We’re all going to have to watch our
cursed tempers.”

Everyone nodded, looking at the floor, out into space, anywhere
rather than at each other.

“We’ve got provisions for a good six weeks,” the lord went on.
“Longer if we start eating horses.”

“Is there any chance for a parley?” Rhodry asked.

“There’s always a chance. Graemyn’s sending a herald out on the
morrow.”

Rhodry watched the parley from a distance, because at dawn he
drew a turn on guard up on the ramparts. Outside, Naddryc’s men
had cleared the battlefield of corpses, leaving a torn, bloodstained
stretch of bare ground for about three hundred yards. Beyond that
were the tents and horses of the besiegers. Around the dun,
beyond javelin range, trotted a mounted patrol. In a rough count,
Rhodry estimated that Naddryc had at least a hundred and thirty
men left. When the sun was about an hour’s worth up in the sky, the
gates opened, and Graemyn’s chamberlain, carrying a long staff
wound with red ribbons, slipped out. The patrol trotted over to him,
made honorable half-bows from their saddles, then escorted him
over to the camp. Rhodry leaned onto the ramparts and waited.
When a flutter of crows flew past cawing and dodging, he envied
them their wings.

Although the herald returned in about half an hour, Rhodry had lo
wait to hear the news until he was relieved from watch. He
scrambled down the ladder and hurried into the great hall, where
the warbands were eating in an ominous silence. Although the
other lords were gone, Nedd was eating with his men. Rhodry sat
down and helped himself to a chunk of bread from a basket, but he
looked expectantly at the lord.

“Naddryc won’t parley,” Nedd said quietly. “He’s made Graemyn
one offer. If we surrender without a fight, he’ll spare the women
and children. Otherwise, he’ll raze the dun and kill every living thing
in it.”

When Rhodry swore under his breath, the other men nodded in
stunned agreement.

“He’s a hard man, Naddryc,” Nedd went on. “And he’s sworn a vow
of blood feud.”

“And if we surrender, what then?” Rhodry said. “Will he hang every
man in the dun?”

“Just that, silver dagger.”

Rhodry laid the chunk of bread back down. For a moment he
wished that they’d sally, die fighting, die clean, instead of swinging
like a horse thief, but there was the tieryn’s lady, her serving
women, his daughters and little son.

“Ah well,” Rhodry said. “A rope’s a better death than a fever. They
say you jerk once and there’s an end to it.”

“For all your silver dagger, you’re a decent man, Rhodry of
Aberwyn. I only hope that my noble allies are as honorable as you.”

“Oh, here, my lord! You don’t mean they’re arguing about it?”

“They are. Well, by the hells, we’ll hold out for a while before we do
anything at all. The bastard can wait for a few days while he savors
his piss-poor victory.”

“Why not wait until he starves us out?”

“What if he changes his terms? I wouldn’t put it past the whoreson
to demand prompt surrender if we’re going to save one woman’s
life.”

Perryn woke to sunlight streaming down between the trees, like
golden spears of light to his dazed sight. When he sat up, he
shrieked at the pulse of pain in his arm. On his knees he crawled to
the stream and drank, cupping the water in his left hand, Then he
realized that his horse was gone. He staggered up, took a few
steps, and knew that he would never be able to walk the remaining
twenty miles to the dun. Fortunately, there was no reason that he’d
have to. He walked another couple of yards, then went very still,
waiting, barely thinking, until he felt the odd sensation, a quivering
alertness, a certain knowledge that somewhere close was, if not
that horse, then another. Following its lead, he angled away,
ignoring the discomfort that told him he was no longer heading
straight for the dun, and worked his slow way through the trees until
at last he saw the brightening light ahead that meant a mountain
meadow. The pull of a horse was so strong that he forgot himself,
hurried, and banged his injured arm against a tree. When he
yelped aloud, he heard an answering whicker just ahead. More
cautiously this time he went on and broke free of the forest into a
little grassy valley, where the chestnut was grazing, the reins
tangling in the grass. When Perryn staggered over, the horse
raised its head and nuzzled his good arm.

“Let’s get that bridle off, my friend. If I die along the way, you’ll
starve if you get those reins, wrapped around a bush or suchlike.”

Taking the bridle off with only one hand was a long agony of effort,
but at last he got it done. Leaning against the gelding for support,
he went through the saddlebags and found the horse’s previous
owner’s spare shirt and a chunk of venison jerky. He managed to
tear the shirt into strips by using his teeth and made himself a
rough sling, then ate the jerky while he rode on, guiding the horse
with his knees. All afternoon they rode slowly, dodging through the
widely spaced trees, climbing up and down the hills, until by sunset
they’d made another ten miles. When they found another meadow,
he let the horse graze and envied him the grass with his stomach
clenching in hunger. Although he was only intending to rest for a
few moments, as soon as he sat down sleep took him.

When he woke, moonlight flooded the meadow. Nearby the
chestnut stood, head down and asleep. The night was unnaturally
silent. Not the cry of an owl, not the song of a cricket, nothing. As
sat up, wondering at the silence, he saw
something—someone—standing at the edge of the meadow. With
a whispered oath, he rose, wishing for the sword he’d left behind
on the battlefield. The figure took one step forward, tall, towering in
the moonlight—or it moonlight? He seemed to drip pale light as
palpable as water running down the strong naked arms, glittering
on the gold torc around his neck, shimmering on the massive
antlers that sprang from a head mostly cervine, though human eyes
looked out of it. Perryn began to weep in a fierce, aching joy.

“Kerun,” he whispered. “My most holy lord.”

The great head swung his way. The liquid dark eyes considered
him not unkindly, but merely distantly; the god raised his hands in
blessing to the man who was perhaps his last true worshipper in all
of Deverry. Then he vanished, leaving Perryn wrapped in a
shuddering awe that wiped all his pain and exhaustion away. With
tears running down his face, he went to the place where the god
had appeared and knelt on the grass, now god-touched and holy.
Eventually the chestnut raised its head with a drowsy nicker and
broke the spell. Perryn mounted and rode on, guiding the horse
instinctively through the dark forest. Although he rode for the rest
of the night and on into the morning, he felt no hunger, no pain, his
wound only a distant ache like a bee sting. About an hour after
dawn, they came out of the trees just a mile from Nedd’s dun. He
trotted up to the hill, then dismounted and led the tired horse up to
the gates. He heard shouts and people running, but all at once, it
was very hard to see. He concentrated on keeping his feet as Jill
raced toward him.

“Lord Perryn! Are they all lost, then?”

“Cursed near. Besieged.” he fainted into a merciful darkness,
where it seemed a stag came to meet him.

Between them Jill and a servant named Saebyn got Perryn up on a
table in the great hall. As she soaked the blood-crusted shirt away
from his wound, Jill found herself trying to remember everything
Nevyn, had ever told her about herbcraft, but the memories did her
little good, because she had no proper tools and precious few
herbs. The only thing Saebyn could turn up for a vulnerary was
rosemary from the kitchen garden. At least Nevyn had always said
that any green herb was better than none. When she finally
loosened the shirt from the wound, she sent Saebyn off for more
hot water and some mead, then carefully peeled the crusted linen
away. Her gray gnome popped into reality and hunkered down on
the table for a look.

“It’s not as bad as I feared,” Jill said to him. “See? It just sliced the
muscle and missed those big blood vessels in the armpit.”

With a solemn nod, the gnome tilted his head to one side and
considered the unconscious man. All at once it leapt up and hissed
like a cat, its skinny mouth gaping to show every fang, its arms
extended and its hands curled like claws. Jill was so surprised at
hearing it make a sound that she caught it barely in time when it
launched itself at Perryn and tried to bite him.

“Stop that!” She gave the gnome a little shake. “What’s so wrong?”

Its face screwed up in hatred, the gnome went limp in her hands.

“You can’t bite Lord Perryn. He’s ill already, and he’s never done
anything to you, either.”

The gnome shook its head yes as if to say he had.

“What? Here, little brother, why don’t you come back later, and try
to explain.”

It vanished just as Saebyn returned with the stableboy behind him.
Jill washed the wound with water, then had Saebyn hold Perryn’s
arms down and the stableboy his feet. Gritting her teeth, she
poured the mead directly into the open wound. With a howl of pain,
Perryn roused from his faint and twisted round. It was all the two
men could do to keep him lying there.

“My apologies, my lord,” Jill said firmly. “But we’ve got to disperse
the foul humors in this wound.”

For a moment he merely gasped for breath; then he turned his
head to look at her.

“Forgot where I was,” he mumbled. “Go ahead.”

Jill wadded up a bit of rag and made him bite on it, then washed
the wound again. He trembled once, then lay so still that she
thought he’d fainted again, but his eyes were open in a stubborn
resistance to pain that she had to admire. Mercifully, the worst was
over. She made a poultice of the rosemary leaves, laid it in the
wound, then bound it up with clean linen.

“Benoic,” he said at last. “I’ve got to ride to Benoic.”

“You can’t. You could bleed to death if you try. Tell me the
message, and I’ll take it on.”

“Ride to my uncle. Tell him Nedd’s trapped in Graemyn’s dun.” His
voice fell into a whisper. “Your Rhodry was still alive, last I saw of
him.”

“My thanks.” Although she nearly broke, she forced her voice
steady. “I’ll pray that he still is.”

While Saebyn told her who Benoic was and what road to take to
Pren Cludan, Jill cut one of the embroidered wolves from Perryn’s
bloody shirt to take as a token. When she rode out, she took two
horses. By switching her weight back and forth, she would be able
to ride at close to a courier’s speed. As soon as she was well away
from the dun, she called to her gnome, which promptly appeared
on the saddle peak.

“Can you find Rhodry? Can you tell me if he’s still alive?”

It nodded yes, patted her hand, then disappeared. Out on the road,
where no one could see her, Jill allowed herself to cry.

A little after dawn on the next day Rhodry climbed the ramparts and
looked out over the dun wall. In the misty morning the enemy camp
was coming awake; cooking fires blossomed among the dirty
canvas tents, and men strolled around, yawning as they tended
their horses. Just beyond the camp was the beginning of a circle of
earthworks, about twenty feet, so far, of packed mound edged with
a ditch that would soon close them round and block any attempts at
escape. It was also an unnecessary effort on Naddryc’s part. The
decision had been made. Soon the lords would surrender and
hang to spare the women and children. All that Rhodry wanted was
for it to be very soon to end the waiting. When he was fourteen
years old, he’d begun learning how to live prepared to die; at
twenty-three, he was a master at that part of the warrior’s craft. Now
the day was upon him, but his Wyrd would come at the end of a
rope.

To die by hanging, to be thrown into a ditch with a hundred men
who’d met the same priest-cursed end, to lie far from Eldidd,
unmarked, unmourned, nothing but a silver dagger who’d had the ill
luck to take the wrong hire—that was his Wyrd, was it? Rhodry his
head in sheer disbelief, that all his berserk battle glory, strange
dweomer prophecies and magical battles had led him to this, a
thing so numbing that he felt no fear and very little grief, only a dark
hiraedd that he’d never see Jill again. What if he’d only ridden east
instead of west and been hired by Naddryc instead of Nedd? That
would have been worse, he decided, to be party to this
dishonorable scheme. He would die and Naddryc live, but at least
he would have his honor, while the lord had thrown his away for
hatred’s sake.

Rhodry was so wrapped in his brooding that when something
tweaked his sleeve, he spun around, his sword out of its scabbard
before he was aware of drawing. Jill’s gray gnome stood on the
rampart, grinning at him while it jigged up and down in excitement.
Rhodry felt a flare of hope. If only he could make the little creature
understand, if only it could tell Jill—but what was she supposed to
do then? Run to some great lord and say that the Wildfolk had told
her the tale? The hope died again.

“It’s cursed good to see you, little brother, but do you realize what
kind of evil has befallen me?”

Much to his surprise it nodded yes, then held up one long finger as
a sign, to pay attention. Suddenly there were Wildfolk all around it,
little blue sprites, fat yellow gnomes, strange gray fellows, and
parti-colored ugly little lasses. Never had Rhodry seen so many, a
vast crowd, along the rampart.

“What is all this?’”

When the gray gnome snapped his fingers, the Wildfolk lined up in
pairs, then began to bob up and down with a rhythmic motion, each
with one hand held out before it. The gray gnome stood at the
head of the line with one hand out like the others, but the left raised
as if holding a sword. Rhodry finally understood.

“An army! Oh, by great Bel himself, do you mean that someone’s
riding to relieve this siege?”

The gnome leapt up and danced, while it nodded yes. With a rushy
sound, the rest of the pack disappeared. When Rhodry’s eyes
filled with tears he wiped them away, swallowing hard before he
could speak.

“Did you tell Jill I was trapped here?

This time the answer was no. The gnome sucked one finger for a
moment, then began to walk back, and forth, while it imitated a stiff,
clumsy, bowlegged gait.

“Lord Perryn? He escaped the battle?”

Although the gnome nodded yes, its expression was peculiarly
sour. It shrugged, as if dismissing something, then leapt to
Rhodry’s shoulder and kissed him on the cheek before it vanished.
Rhodry tossed his head back and laughed—until it occurred to that
now he had to convince the noble lords that rescue was on the
way, that there was no need to surrender, without, of course,
mentioning the Wildfolk.

“Oh, horsedung and a pile of it!”

All morning, while he watched the mounted patrols ride round and
round the dun, he went over and over the problem, trying out
phrases, rejecting them, trying some more. Eventually Lord Nedd
climbed awkwardly up the ladder onto the catwalk and limped over.

“Just thought I’d have a look at the bastards.” Nedd leaned onto
the wall and stared down, his red hair oddly dull in the sunlight, as if
he were ill. “Ah well, at least we’ll hang soon and get it over with.”

“Er, well, my lord, I was just thinking about that, and . . . ”

“At least I don’t have a widow to mourn me.” The lord went on as if
he hadn’t heard Rhodry’s tentative words. “By the Lord of Hell’s
balls, I’d always wanted my land to revert to Perryn if I died, and
now he’s died before me.”

Nedd was close to tears over his cousin’s death, a surprising thing
to Rhodry, who considered him no great loss. Or had considered
him lost, until just a few hours ago.

“Here, my lord, what if he escaped from the field?”

“Oh, indeed! What if a crow sang like a little finch, too? Perryn
wasn’t much of a swordsman, silver dagger, and Naddryc’s
bastards were slaughtering the wounded after the battle.”

“True-spoken, but . . . ”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Nedd snarled. “Why mourn poor
Perryn? He’s better off dead.”

“I wasn’t, my lord. Naught of the sort!”

“My apologies. I forget you didn’t know him well. By the asses of
the gods, I got so blasted sick of all the chatter. What’s wrong with
your wretched cousin, how can you stand him in your dun, he’s
daft, he’s a half-wit, he’s this or he’s that. He wasn’t daft at all, by
the hells! A little . . . well, eccentric, maybe, but not daft.” He sighed
heavily. “Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’ll see him in the
Otherlands tomorrow morn.”

“My lord, he’s not dead.”

Nedd looked at him as if he were thinking that Rhodry was daft.
Here was the crux, and Rhodry steadied himself with a breath
before he went on.

“My lord, you must have heard the old saw, that Eldidd men often
have a touch of the second sight? It’s true, and I’ll swear to you that
I know deep in my heart that Perryn’s alive, and that he’s bringing
an army back to relieve the siege.”

The lord’s eyes narrowed.

“Look at me, a misbegotten silver dagger. I’ve been in more
battles and tavern brawls than most men even hear of. I’ve faced
hanging before, too, for that matter. Am I the kind of man to turn to
fancies because he can’t face death? Didn’t you praise me for my
courage on the field?”

“So I did.” The lord looked away, thinking. “I’ve seen you go
berserk, too. Why wouldn’t you have a touch of the sight as well,
for all I know? But—”

“I know it sounds daft, but I beg you, believe me. I know it’s true. It
comes to me in dreams, like. I know there’s a relieving army on the
way.”

“But who—oh ye gods, my uncle!” Suddenly Nedd grinned. “Of
course Perryn would ride straight to Benoic—well, if he’s truly
alive.”

“I know he is, my lord. I’ll swear it to you on my silver dagger.”

“And that’s the holiest oath a man, like you can swear. Ah, by the
black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, what does it matter if we hang
tomorrow or in an eight night, anyway? Come along, silver dagger.
We’ve got to convince my allies of this, but I’ll wager they’ll grab at
any shred of hope they can see.”

Four days after she left Nedd’s dun, Jill rode back with an army of
two hundred twenty men, every last rider that Tieryn Benoic could
scrape up, whether by calling in old alliances or by outright threats.
As the warband filed into the ward, Saebyn ran out, clutched the
tieryn’s stirrup as a sign of fealty, and began telling the lord
everything that Perryn had told him, over the past few days. Jill
threw her reins to the stableboy and hurried into the great hall,
where Perryn lay propped up on Nedd’s bed with a pair of
boarhounds on either side of him and, three of those sleek little
hounds known as gwertraeion at his feet. She shoved a dog to one
side and perched on the edge of the bed to look over her patient,
whose eyes were clear and alert, and his cheeks unfevered.

“Is the wound healing well?” she said.

“It is. You must have brought my uncle with you from, all the noise
outside. I knew he’d come. If he didn’t have me and Nedd to
complain about, his life would be cursed dull.”

At that, Benoic himself strode in, slapping his pair of gauntlets
impatiently against his thigh.

“You dolt, Perro! And Nedd’s twice a dolt! But Naddryc’s a
whoreson bastard, having the gall to besiege my kin. Well and
good, we’ll wipe him off the battlefield for it. Are you riding with
us?”’

“I am. A wolf can run on three legs.”

“Now wait a moment, my lord,” Jill broke in. “If you ride, that cut
could start bleeding again.”

“Let it. I’ve got to go with them. I can lead the army through the
forest, you see. We’ll save twenty miles and a night that way.”

“Splendid,” Benoic said. “Glad to see you’re finally showing some
spirit, lad. Don’t worry, Jill. We’ll have your man out of that worm-
riddled dun as fast as ever we can.”

“Your Grace is most honorable and gracious. If I were a bard I’d
praise your name for this.”

With a small bow she retired and left them alone. Out in the ward a
pair of Benoic’s vassals were conferring with their captains while
the men unsaddled and tethered their horses outside for want of
room in the stables. She went out the gates and walked about
halfway down the hill, then sat down where she could be alone and
called to the gray gnome, who appeared promptly.

“Is Rhodry still all right?”

It nodded yes, then hunkered down in front of her and began
picking its teeth with one fingernail.

“You still haven’t told me why you hate Lord Perryn.”

It paused to screw its face up in irritation, then went on picking until
it’d finally gotten its fangs clean enough to suit it.

“Come on now, little brother. You could at least tell me why. Or is it
too hard to explain?”

Rather reluctantly, he nodded his agreement to this last.

“Well, let’s see. Did he hurt you or some other Wildfolk?”

No, he hadn’t done that.

“Can he even see you?”

Apparently not, since it nodded a no.

“Is he an evil man?”

Frowning in concentration, the gnome waggled its hands as if to
say: not exactly that, either.

“You know, I’m having a hard time thinking up more questions.”

It smiled, pressed its hands to its temples as if it had a headache,
then disappeared. Jill supposed that she’d never find out the
reason, but as long as the gnome behaved itself and didn’t pinch
the lord or tie knots in his hair, it didn’t particularly matter at the
moment, not when she had Rhodry’s safety to worry about. She
decided that she couldn’t bear to sit here in Nedd’s moldering dun
and wait for news.

Since she had a mail shirt and a shield of her own, on the morrow
Jill rose and armed when the warband did. Once the army was
mustered outside the gates, she led her horse into line at the very
rear. Since these men had been hastily assembled from Benoic’s
various allies and vassals, everyone who noticed her at all seemed
to assume that she was a silver dagger hired by some other lord.
All that counted to them, truly, was that she was another sword.

By keeping strictly to herself and speaking to no one, Jill escaped
discovery all that day, because Perryn led the army off the road
into the forest on a track so narrow that they had to ride single file.
All day they wound around hills and through the trees by such
confusing paths that she prayed Perryn actually knew what he was
doing. She also understood why all the provisions were on pack
mules, not in carts; apparently Benoic knew his nephew’s daft ways
very well. That night, however, they made camp in a mountain
meadow, and there Jill was caught out. Like the excellent
commander he was, Benoic made a point of walking through the
camp and speaking to his men personally. When he came to Jill,
he stared for a moment, then, roared with laughter.

“Have all my men gone blind? Mail or no, Jill, you don’t look like a
lad to me. What are you doing with the army?”

“Well, Your Grace, my man’s all I have in the world. I’ve got to see
him with my own eyes as soon as ever I can.”

“Huh. Well, we can’t be sending you back. now. You’d only get lost
trying to follow Perm’s wretched deer trails. You’d best come camp
with me. You can keep your eye on Perryn’s wound, and everyone
will know you’re under my protection.”

When Jill shifted her gear over to the tieryn’s campfire, she found
Perryn there, slumped against his saddle. Although he was pale
with exhaustion, he looked up and smiled at her.

“I thought you’d find a way to come along,” he said.

“Why, my lord?”

“Oh, er ah, just rather thought you were that sort of lass. I hope
Rhodry’s worthy of you.”

“I hold him so, my lord.”

Nodding absently, he stared into the fire. She was struck by how he
looked, a perpetual melancholy that was beginning to wear lines a
face too young to have them, rather as if he were in exile from
some far country rather than among his kin. A puzzle, that one, she
thought to herself.

On the morrow, Jill saw yet another puzzling thing about the lord.
Since she was riding right behind him, she could watch how he
managed his leading. When they came to a spot where two trails
joined or one petered out, he would wave the army to a halt, then
ride a few steps ahead to sit on his horse and stare blankly around
him, his head tilted as if sniffing the wind. For a moment he would
look profoundly uncomfortable, then suddenly smile and lead the
men on with perfect confidence. She was also impressed with his
riding. Most of the time he left the reins wrapped around the saddle
peak and guided the horse with his knees, while he swayed in a
perfect balance in spite of having one arm in a sling. On horseback
he looked much more graceful, as if his peculiar proportions had
been designed to make him and a horse fit together in an artistic
whole.

About two hours before sunset, Perryn found the army a large
meadow in which to camp and announced that they were a scant
six miles from Graemyn’s dun. After the horses were tended, Jill
put a clean bandage on Perryn’s wound, which was oozing blood
and lymph, and tied up his sling again. Although he pleaded that he
was too weary to eat, she badgered him into downing some
cheese.

“We’ll reach the dun tomorrow,” he remarked. “I can rest then, after
the battle, I mean.”

“Now listen, my lord. You can’t fight. Trying to swing a sword would
open that wound up again.”

“Oh, don’t trouble your heart about that. I’ll just trot around the edge
of things. See what I can see.”

It was such a daft remark that Jill couldn’t answer.

“Oh, er, ah, well, I heard my uncle talking with the other lords,
they’re thinking of riding right into battle.” He looked sincerely
distressed. “There’s bound to be wounded horses, and maybe I
can get them to safety.”

“Oh. I keep forgetting how valuable horses are up here.”

“I cursed well hope that Nedd and Rhodry are still alive.”

Although she knew that they were, she had no way of telling him.

“So do I,” she said instead. “You seem to honor your cousin highly,
my lord.”

“I don’t, because he’s not truly honorable. But I love him. We were
pages together in Benoic’s dun. I think I would have gone mad if it
weren’t for Nedd.”

“Was the tieryn as harsh as all that?”

“He wasn’t, not truly. It was me, you see. I just . . . well, oh ah er.”

As she waited for him to finish, Jill wondered if Nedd’s efforts to
keep him sane had all gone for naught. Finally he got up and went
to his blankets without another word.

“You’re certain it will be today?” Graemyn said.

“As certain as the sun is shining,” Rhodry said. “Your Grace, I know
it sounds daft, but I swear to you that the relief army’s close by.
We’d best be ready to arm and sally. If they don’t come, then Your
Grace will know I’m daft, and we can all surrender and be done with
it.”

For a long moment Graemyn considered him with an expression
that wavered between doubt and awe. Perched on Rhodry’s
shoulder, the gray gnome squirmed impatiently until at last the
tieryn nodded his agreement.

“True enough, silver dagger.” He turned to his captain. “Have the
men arm. One way or another, today sees the end of this.”

The gnome grabbed Rhodry’s hair and gave it a tug, then
vanished.

The warband drew up behind the gates; watchmen climbed to the
ramparts. As the waiting dragged on in the hot sun, the men ended
up sitting down on the cobbles. No one spoke; every now and then
someone would look Rhodry’s way with a puzzled frown, as if
thinking they were daft to trust this silver dagger’s words. All at
once, a watchman yelled with a whoop of joy.

“Horsemen coming out of the forest! I see the Wolf blazon! It’s
Benoic, by the gods!”

Laughing, cheering, the men leapt to their feet. Nedd threw an arm
around Rhodry’s shoulders and hugged him; half a dozen men
slapped him on the back. At the tieryn’s order, two servants lifted
down the latch beam at the gates and rushed to man the winches.
From outside, the battle noise broke over them; men yelling, horns
blowing, horses neighing in panic, and through it all was the strike
of sword on shield and mail. Rhodry started to laugh, a little cold
mutter under his breath; he felt so light on his feet that it seemed
he hovered over the cobbles.

“Remember!” Nedd hissed. “We’re going after Naddryc.”

Although he nodded agreement, Rhodry went on laughing.

With a groan and creak the gates swung back. Screaming and
jostling, the warband rushed out, just as when leaves and sticks
dam a stream, which worries at them, nudges them, and at last
breaks free in a churn of white water. Down the hill, the enemy
camp was a screaming, shoving, bloody madness. Half of
Naddryc’s men had had no time to arm; those wearing mail were
trying to hold the breach in the earthworks against a full cavalry
charge, and they were doing it with swords, not pikes. Horses went
down; others screamed and reared; but for every horse lost, three
or four of the enemy were trampled. All at once the cry went up: the
sally to our rear! the sally to our rear! Rhodry’s laugh rose like a
wail as the horsemen drove through. The defenders broke, swirling
and running to face the new threat as Graemyn led his men
downhill.

“There he is!” Nedd shrieked. “With the trimmed shield.”

A burly man with mail but no helm was racing across the battlefield
in retreat, the silver edging on his shield winking in the sunlight. At
an angle Rhodry went after him, his laugh gone as he thought only
of running, and soon he’d left the wounded Nedd behind. Naddryc
was slowing, panting, gasping for breath. Then he stumbled, and
Rhodry dodged round to cut him off. For a moment they merely
stared at each other, panting while they got their breath back,
Naddryc’s mouth working under his blond mustache.

“So,” Rhodry said. “Here’s the man who was going to kill women
and children.”

Then the cold, mad chuckle took over his voice. As he lunged,
Naddryc dodged back, flinging up his sword and shield. He parried
gracefully, his shield a little high to protect his bare head, and
made a quick thrust that Rhodry easily turned aside. Suddenly light
flared in a drift of black smoke; someone had fired the tents.
Rhodry feinted in from the side, then struck; Naddryc parried barely
in time, jumped back, and began to circle. As Rhodry swung to
face him, the murk reached them, smoke, dust, thicker than a sea
fog. They both checked, coughing for a moment, but the smell of
burning drove Rhodry mad.

With a choking, gasping howl he charged, as wild as an injured lion,
striking, parrying, cursing, and coughing while Naddryc desperately
tried to fend him off, rarely getting in a blow of his own as he
parried with both sword and shield. Yet even in his madness
Rhodry saw that the lord was tiring. He feinted to the side again,
dodged fast to the other, and then back as. Naddryc tried to
follow—too slowly. Rhodry’s blow caught him hard on the side of
the neck. With a ghastly bubbling scream he fell to his knees, then
buckled as his life’s blood pumped out the artery.

Rhodry’s berserker fit left him, dropped away like a wind-caught
cloak, but he was possessed by an even madder panic.
Somewhere Jill was lying dead or wounded, somewhere in the
burning. He knew it, even as he knew that he was being irrational.
He heard Nedd yell his name, but he turned and ran toward the
blazing tents in the same blind way that he’d charged Naddryc. All
at once he heard hoofbeats and saw a horse emerging from the
murk. Even flecked with soot, Sunrise’s pale gold coat still shone.

“Rhoddo!” Jill yelled. “Get up behind me! Naddryc’s horses are
about to stampede.”

Rhodry sheathed his sword and swung up behind her. He was
barely settled when she kicked Sunrise to a trot.

“What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you. I could hear you laughing and rode straight for the
sound. Look behind us. Are they coming?”

When he glanced back, he could, see little in the smoke and dust,
but he did make out an orderly procession of horselike objects
moving away from the burning camp.

“By all the gods! Someone’s gotten them out of there.”

“It must be Epona herself, then. When I rode by a few minutes,
ago, they were screaming and puling at their tethers.”’

She paused the horse and turned in the saddle to give him a
puzzled look. He grabbed her and kissed her, remembered his
irrational panic, and kissed her again. With a laugh she pushed him
away.

“You’re breaking my neck, twisted around like this. Wait til we’re
alone, my love.”

At that Rhodry remembered that they were in the middle of a battle,
but as he looked around, somewhat dazed as he always was when
the fit left him, he realized that the fighting was over. Naddryc been
so outnumbered that most of his men had been slaughtered and
the fortunate few remaining taken prisoner. As they dismounted
and walked on, leading the horse over the uncertain ground, he
saw Nedd talking to Graemyn over Naddryc’s corpse.

“Come here, silver dagger.” Nedd hailed him with a shout. “Your
Grace, this is the man who killed this bastard.”

“You’ll be well rewarded for this, silver dagger,” Graemyn said.
“Indeed, well rewarded for everything you’ve done for me.”

The tieryn knelt beside the corpse, then took his sword two-handed
and severed Naddryc’s neck in one swift blow. Rhodry’s stomach
churned; it was an impious thing that he was seeing. Graemyn
grabbed the head by the hair and stood up, looking at every man
nearby as if challenging them to say one wrong word, then strode
away, the head dangling in his hand. Even though the priests had
long since banned the taking of trophy heads with mighty curses,
the sight of Graemyn with his enemy’s head touched something
deep in Rhodry, as one string of a harp will sound when another is
plucked. Although Jill and Nedd were watching the tieryn in honest
revulsion, he felt a certain dark satisfaction.

“I’d do no less to a man who threatened my wife and kin,” Rhodry
said.

“Well,” Nedd considered this briefly. “He had provocation, sure
enough.”

Before he went back to the dun, Rhodry knelt beside the headless
corpse and methodically looted it of every small and valuable thing,
coin, ring brooch, a gold-trimmed scabbard, and a silver belt
buckle. This hire had drawn to an end, and a silver dagger had to
think of eating on the long road.

When the fire broke out in the tents, Perryn was riding around the
edge of the actual battle rounding up wounded horses and leading
them to safety outside the earthworks. The meaning of the spread
of smoke didn’t quite register on him until the chestnut he was
riding snorted nervously and danced. Then he remembered
Naddryc’s horses, tethered behind the tents. With an oath he
turned the chestnut and galloped straight for the camp. At first the
horse balked, but Perryn talked to him, patted him, soothed him til
at last he picked up courage and allowed himself to be ridden near
to the fire.

Between the burning and the earthwork, horses were rearing,
screaming with that ugly half-human sound a horse makes only in
terror, kicking out at the grooms trying to save them as they pulled
desperately at their tether ropes. Perryn wrapped his reins around
the saddle peak and guided the chestnut with his knees as he rode
right into the panic. Although the chestnut trembled and threatened
now and then to buck, he kept moving as Perryn talked, pouring out
the words, smiling his special smile, reaching out with his one good
hand, patting a horse here, slapping one there, as if he were the
stallion of a herd, who asserts his control with nips and kicks as
much as affectionate nuzzles. The panic began to ebb. Although
the horses were dancing and sweating with gray fear-foam, they
fell in behind and around him in the swirling smoke. At last the
grooms cut the last tether.

“Take them out!” one yelled. “And may the gods bless you!”

With a wave and a yell, Perryn led the herd forward at a calm jog.
Circling around the inner earthwork, they swept free of the burning
camp just as a rain of sparks and glowing bits of canvas began to
fall. Perryn called out wordlessly, and they galloped out of the
breach to the safety of the meadow beyond. When he looked
back, he could barely see the dun, rising half hidden in the murk.
With the horses huddled around him, he waited for a good half
hour until the smoke diminished to a few wisps. As he was leading
the herd back, Nedd came out on horseback to meet him.

“I was looking for you,” Nedd said. “I figured that you were the only
man on earth who could have saved Naddryc’s horses.”

“Oh, er, ah, well, they trust me, you see.”

For a moment they merely stared at one another.

“Er, well.” Perryn said at last. “Did you think me slain in that first
scrap?”

“I did, but now I see that I wasn’t so lucky.”

“I’m not rid of you, either.”

Leaning from their saddles, they clasped hands, and they were
both grinning as if they could never stop.

Back at the dun, the cousins turned the horses over to the
servants, then went into the great hail, where a conference of sorts
was in progress at the table of honor. While the lesser lords and
allies merely listened, Benoic and Graemyn were arguing, both
red-faced and shouting.

“Now listen here!” Benoic bellowed “You’ve made it cursed hard
for Naddryc’s brother to settle this peacefully. What’s he going to
when he gets his brother’s body back in two pieces?”

“Anything he blasted well wants to say! What’s he going to fight me
with? Ghost riders from the Otherlands?”

“And what about Naddryc’s allies? Were their mothers all so barren
that they only had one son apiece? Don’t they have uncles to ride
to their nephew’s vengeance?”

At that, Graemyn paused and began to stroke his mustache.

“If you want this thing over and done with,” Benoic went on in a
normal tone, “you’d best send messengers down to Dun Deverry
straightaway to plead for the high king’s intervention. If you do, I’ll
back you in this war, for my misbegotten nephew’s sake if naught
else. If you don’t, I’m pulling my men and Nedd’s out right now.”

Benoic had always had a splendid talent for blackmail. “Done,
then,” Graemyn said. “I’ll get the messengers on the road today.”

With a nod of satisfaction, Benoic rose and gestured for Nedd and
Perryn to follow.

“Come along, lads. We’ve got wounded men to look in on and that
silver dagger deserves some praise. He’s the one who slew
Naddryc, eh? Hah! Just what the bastard deserved—cut down by a
wretched silver dagger.”

Although his head was swimming with exhaustion, Perryn went
along with them because he was afraid to tell his uncle how weak
he felt. They found Rhodry standing by the door and drinking ale
down like water while Jill smiled at him as if she were thinking he’d
won the battle all by himself. Perryn sighed at the cruel injustice,
that she would honestly love her arrogant berserker. He found her
appealing, a lovely lass, half wild and wandering, with her golden
horse that suited her so well, but she was also attached to the best
swordsman he’d ever seen. Although he hated to admit it, Perryn
was terrified of Rhodry.

“Well, silver dagger,” Benoic said, “you’ve earned your hire twice
over. You always hear about people with the second sight seeing
deaths, or shipwrecks, that sort of evil thing, but your touch of it has
come in cursed handy.”

“So it has, Your Grace. We Eldidd men can be a peculiar lot.”

Although the others laughed at the jest, it made Perryn’s unease
deepen. There was something odd about the silver dagger that he
couldn’t put into words but that pricked at him, a discomfort much
like the one that warned him he was straying from a true path.
Rhodry was more than a danger to him; he was a reproach or part
of a curse, or—something. Perryn felt so baffled that he shook his
head, a gesture that was a mistake. All at once the room seemed
to spin around him, and a crackling golden fog rose out of
nowhere. He heard Nedd call out, then fainted. Although he woke
briefly when Nedd and Benoic laid him on a bed, he was asleep
before they left the chamber. All that day he slept, and he dreamt
of Jill.

On the morrow, every unwounded man in the dun rode out with the
noble-born, ostensibly in honorable escort as they returned the
bodies of Naddryc and his allies, but in reality as a warband in case
Naddryc’s kin decided to continue the blood feud. Jill spent a long
morning helping Graemyn’s wife, Camma, tend the wounded, a job
that usually fell to the wives of Cerrgonney lords for want of enough
chirurgeons in the province. When noon came, they were both glad
of the chance for a wash and the time to sit down over a light meal
of bread and cheese.

“My thanks for your aid, Jill. You know quite a bit about chirurgery.”

“My lady is most welcome. I’ve seen a lot of bloodshed in my life.”

“So you must have, following your silver dagger around like this.
He’s certainly a handsome man, isn’t he? I can see how he’d turn
the head of a young lass, I truly do, but do you ever regret riding
with him? You must have left a great deal behind for your Rhodry.”

“I didn’t, my lady. All I’ve ever known in my life is poverty. Rhodry
has never let me starve, and well, that’s good enough for me.”

Camma stared, caught her rudeness, then gave Jill a small smile
of apology. Jill decided that it was time to change the subject.

“Lord Perryn’s wound seems to be healing well. I’m awfully glad.
After all, Rhodry owes his life to him.”

“So do we all.” For a moment Gamma’s face turned haggard.
“Well, his clan breeds stubborn men, the stubbornest in all
Cerrgonney, I swear, and that’s saying a great deal.”

“It is. Do you know his clan well?”

“I do. His aunt and mother are both cousins of mine, or I should
say, his mother was, poor lamb. She died some years ago, you
see, but Perryn’s Aunt Gwerna and I often meet. Gwerna had the
raising of him, truly. He was the last of seven children, you see, and
his mother was never truly well again after his birth. She had a hard
time carrying him, some bleeding and bad pains, and then he as in
her womb only seven months, not nine.”

“By the Goddess herself! I’m surprised the babe lived!”

“So were Gwerna and I. He was such a scrawny little thing, but
healthier than any other early babe I’ve ever seen. Since his
mother was so ill, Gwerna found a wet nurse, and she made the
lass carry Perro in a kind of sling right against her breasts and
under her dresses day and night for the warmth, you see, and the
lass sat by the fire all day and slept by it at night, too. I think that’s
what saved him, constantly being kept warm for a couple of
months.” She paused, considering. “Maybe it was his hard start in
life that made him so odd, the poor lad. Gwerna always called him
the changeling. He made you think of all those old tales where the
Wildfolk steal a human babe and leave one of their own in its
stead.”

Jill felt an odd wondering whether, if in Perryn’s case, the old
superstition might be true, but the gray gnome materialized on the
table and gave Camma such a nasty sneer that it seemed to be
heaping scorn on the very thought. It sat down by the trencher of
cheese and rested its chin on its hands to listen as Camma went
on.

“It’s naughty of me to be telling tales on him, now that he’s a man
and grown, but if you’d seen him, you’d understand, Jill. Such a
skinny little lad, and that red hair of his was always like a thrush’s
nest, no matter how much Gwerna combed it.” Camma smiled,
taking a sincere pleasure in these memories of better times. “And
he was always out in the hills or the woods, every chance he got.
He used to sob every autumn when the snows came, because
he’d have to stay indoors for months. And then, there was the time
he ran away. He couldn’t have been more than eight. Graemyn and
I rode to pay Gwerna and Benoic a visit, and one day Perryn got
caught stealing honey cake from the kitchen. Well, every lad does
that now and again, but Benoic got into one of his tempers. He was
going to beat the lad, but little Nedd begged and begged his uncle
to spare him, so Benoic relented. Well, the next morning, there
was no sign of Perryn. Gwerna had every man in the dun seeching
for him, but the whole two weeks we were there, no one ever found
him, and Gwerna was in tears, sure he was starved or drowned. I
thought so myself. But then, when it was almost winter, Gwerna
sent me a message. When the snows came, Perryn turned up at
the gates, dirty and tattered, but well fed. He’d lived in the hills on
his own for three months.”

“Ye gods! And what did he have to say for himself?”

“Well, he’d heard everyone calling him the changeling, and so he
got it into his head that he should go live with the Wildfolk where he
belonged. But I never found any, he says, the poor little lad. Poor
Gwerna, she wept over that, and even Benoic stopped being so
hard on him—well, for a while, anyway.”

Jill would have liked to hear more, but the object of these
reminiscences came strolling over to the table. The gnome snarled
at him, then disappeared.

“Perro, you should be in your bed,” Gamma said. ”One of the
servants can bring you a meal.”

“It’s cursed dull, lying abed. I’ll be fine.”

Cradling his sling-supported arm Perryn sat down across the table
from Jill. Under his eyes were dark shadows like smears of soot.

“My lord,” Jill said, “you truly should be resting.”

“I’ll never mend shut up like a hog in a pen. I want to go out to the
woods, sit out there for a while.”

Coupled with Gamma’s tale, his request made an odd sort of
sense. Out of duty to the man who’d saved Rhodry’s life, Jill
saddled up his gray gelding, helped him mount, then led the horse
out of the dun. Out in the fields, only part of the earthwork still
stood; the day before, Benoic’s men had dumped the bodies of
the slain into the ditch and filled it in, with the mound above. They
walked beyond this grim scar on the earth to the edge of the forest
and found a spot among the scattered pines, where the ground
was cushioned with needles, and the sunlight, came down in,
shafts. With a sigh of pleasure, Perryn sat down, his back to a tree.
He actually did seem stronger now that he was outside, with color
in his face and life in his eyes.

“It’s splendid of you to trouble yourself over me, Jill.”

“Oh, hardly! I owe you many an honor for saving Rhodry.”

“You don’t, at that. I made that ride for Nedd’s sake and my own.
What was I to do? Lie there and let them kill me? I wasn’t even
thinking of Rhodry, so there’s no need for thanks.”

“I’ve never known anyone who thinks like you. You’re as scrupulous
as a priest.”

“Everyone says that. I wanted to be a priest, you know. My uncle
got into a temper over it, and my father just laughed.”

“Well, I can’t see Benoic allowing one of his kinsmen to serve Bel
instead of the sword.”

“Oh, not Bel. I wanted to be a priest of Kerun, but I couldn’t even
find a temple of his.”

Jill was quite surprised. She knew little of Kerun’s worship, except
that he was one of the dark gods of the Dawntime who had been
displaced as the temples of Bel and Nudd grew in power. The stag
god was lord of the hunt, while Bel presided over the settled life of
the growing grain. Vaguely she remembered that you were
supposed to give the first deer taken in a new year to Kerun, but
she doubted if anyone bothered anymore.

“He’s a splendid god,” Perryn remarked.

“So are all the gods,” Jill said, in case any were listening.

“Oh, truly, but Kerun’s the only one who . . . oh, er, ah, well, who
seemed to suit me, I suppose I mean.” He thought for a long
moment “Or, er, I should say, he’s the only god that I’m suited for.
Or somewhat like that I’ve always felt that if I prayed to the others,
they’d take it as an affront.”

“What? Oh, come now, don’t be so harsh with yourself. The
Goddess of the Moon is mother of us all, and she and the Three
Mothers will listen to anyone’s prayer.”

“Not to mine. And the Moon’s not my mother, either.”

Although Jill supposed that this statement bordered on blasphemy,
she neither knew nor cared enough about the worship of the gods
to refute it

“It’s not that I like being this way, mind,” Perryn went on. “It’s just
that I know it in my heart. Kerun’s the only god who’ll have me. I
would have liked being his priest, living out in the wilderness
somewhere and doing whatever his rites are. I couldn’t even find
anyone who knew much about that, you see.”

“Well, here, maybe you should go to Dun Deverry. I’ve been told
there are ancient temples there where the priests know everything
there is to know. I’ll wager there’s a book or suchlike, and you
could maybe hire someone to read it to you.”

“Now there’s a thought!” He smiled at her. “You’re actually taking
me seriously, aren’t you?”

“Of course. My father always said that if a man wants to be a priest,
the gods will favor those who help him.”

“Your father sounds like a splendid fellow. But it’s just that no one
ever takes me seriously, not even Nedd. I mean, he cares about
me and defends me and suchlike, but he thinks I’m daft, you see,
even though he won’t admit he does.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re daft.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. I’ll be honest with you. I think you’re a truly eccentric man,
but I’ve met stranger fellows than you along the long road.
Compared to some of them—why, you’re perfectly ordinary.”

With a toss of his head, he laughed. She was surprised at his
laughter, deep, smooth, genuinely humorous, and realized that
she’d been expecting it would be as halting and strange as his way
of speaking.

“Well, then, maybe I should ride to Dun Deverry and see more of
the world,” he said at last. “I could scrape up some coin from my
brothers. They’d probably give me a bit, you see, just to be rid of
me for a while. My thanks, Jill. I never thought of that. I hate cities,
and it never occurred to me that there’d be anything worth having in
one.”

“Well, I like them myself. They stink, but there’s always so much to
see among the smells.”

He smiled, watching her so warmly that she went on her guard,
mindful that they were alone and hidden. Since she could have
bested him easily in any sort of fight, she wasn’t afraid of him, but
she refused to give him the slightest encouragement that might
cause trouble with Rhodry. She had no desire to see poor Perryn
dead at the hands of her jealous man. Aware that her mood had
changed, he sighed and looked away.

“Oh, er, ah, well, I might have made a good priest. I’m certainly not
much of a warrior.”

“Oh, now, don’t smear mud on your name.”

He nodded absently. She waited for him to go on and waited and
waited, until in some twenty minutes she realized that he was
capable of sitting silently for hours. Although she felt no interest in
him as a man, as a puzzle he was fascinating.

That night, the army made camp about twenty miles north and east
of Graemyn’s dun, on the very spot of land that was the cause of
the war, where they would remain while a messenger went ahead
to Naddryc’s brother. Since the weather was warm, the cart
containing the noble remains was stowed a good bit downwind of
the camp itself. As Nedd remarked to Rhodry, it was possible that
Aegwyc wouldn’t even unwrap his brother’s corpse to see how it
had been mutilated.

“So we can hope, my lord,” Rhodry said. “How far away is it to Lord
Aegwyc’s dun?”

“Just ten miles. With luck, he’ll come by sunset tomorrow.”

Together they walked back to the camp, sprawled over a meadow.
Although the dust was thickening to a velvet gray, Rhodry, of
course, could see quite well with his half-elven eyesight. As they
passed a clump of scrubby bushes, he saw something move within
it and stopped for a better look, as it was unlikely that a rabbit or
other animal would come this close to so many human beings.
Cowering among the twisted trunks was one of the Wildfoik, but
he’d never seen one like it: a blackish, deformed gnome with long
fangs, bulging eyes, and red claws. For a moment it stared at him
in terror, then vanished.

“Somewhat wrong?” Nedd said.

“Naught, my lord. It just looked like . . . oh, like someone had
dropped a bit of gear in there, but it was only a rock.”

Later, as they sat by the campfire, Rhodry had the distinct feeling
that he was being watched, but although he looked carefully around
him, he never caught either man or spirit looking his way.

“Using the Wildfolk to spy could be cursed dangerous,” said the
man who was calling himself Gwin.

“I know that, but there’s naught else I can do until I get a look at
Rhodry in the flesh.” His companion looked up from the scrying
mirror, laid out on a square of black velvet on the table in front of
him. “At least he’s got out of that siege. That stinking little feud
could have been the ruin of all our plans.”

Gwin merely nodded, well aware how close they’d come to losing
their prey to a warrior’s Wyrd. The man who was using the name
Merryc carefully wrapped up the mirror and put it back into the
secret pocket of his saddlebags. Although they were both Bardek
men, they’d been chosen for this hunt because there was Deverry
blood in their families. Both had straight, dark brown hair and skin
light enough to go unremarked in the kingdom, especially in the
northern provinces, where men of their homeland were rarely seen.
Gwin’s mother, in fact, had been a Deverry girl, sold by her
impoverished clan to a Bardek merchant as a concubine. As he
vaguely remembered, his father had been fairly pale by Bardek
standards, too, but then he’d only seen the man a handful of times
before they’d sold him off as an unwanted slave child at the age of
four. He knew nothing about Merryc’s background nor in fact, his
true name. Men who were chosen for the Hawks of the
Brotherhood kept their own secrets and allowed others theirs.

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I do,” Merryc said, buckling the saddlebag. “It’s not far. I think it’ll
be perfectly safe for us to ride by on the morrow. We can stop and
gawk at the army for a few minutes. No one will think much of it.
What traveler wouldn’t stop and stare at the doings of the noble-
born?”

“True-spoken. And then?”

“We watch. Naught more. Remember that well. All we do is watch
from a distance until Rhodry and the lass are out on the road alone.
Then we can summon the others and make our move.”

“Well and good, then, but there’s somewhat about this plan that
vexes me. It’s too complex, all twisted, like a bit of those interlaced
decorations they favor here.”’

“Well, and I have to admit I feel the same, but who are we to argue
with our officers?”

“No one, of course.”

“That jest wasn’t funny in the least.”

“I didn’t mean it to be a jest.”

Gwin felt a sudden shudder of fear, as if by saying the ordinary
phrase “nev yn” he might have summoned Nevyn into their inn
chamber like a demon, rising at the very sound of its name. Then
he brushed the irrational thought aside. It was only a symptom of
his unease with the convoluted scheme which his superiors in the
blood guild had laid upon them. It was all very well for them, safely
back in the islands, to talk of kidnapping Rhodry unharmed without
attracting the attention of the dweomer of light.

“Has anyone told you, what we’re supposed to do about that lass
of his?” Merryc said.

“They have. Kill her. If there’s time, we’re allowed to have a bit of
sport with her first.”’

“Splendid. By all accounts, she’s lovely.”

“But only if it’s safe. She’s not important at all to whatever the point
of all, this is, or so I was told. She just needs, to be gotten out of
the way.”’

Merryc nodded, considering this new bit of information. They were
both too low in, the Hawks’ guild to have been given more than
what they absolutely needed to know. Although he accepted his
ignorance as part of the discipline, privately Gwin wondered just
what the blood guilds intended to do with Rhodry once they had
him safely back in Bardek. Naught that was pleasant, no doubt, but
that was no affair of his. In fact, neither he nor Merryc had any idea
of who had hired their guild and sent them on this errand. The
blood guilds took work from whoever could pay their high price,
and there were men in Deverry as well as Bardek who knew it.

On the morrow they rode out of Bobyr, the village in which they’d
been staying, and headed northeast. Some two hours after noon,
they came to a wide meadow and the army camp, a sprawl of tents
thirty feet off the road, with the horses grazing beyond them.
Although most of the men were sitting on the ground, most of them
dicing, there were guards spaced at regular intervals around the
encampment.

“Let’s hope Rhodry isn’t off beyond the horses,” Merryc muttered.

In a moment they had worse things to worry about than where
Rhodry might be. As they walked their horses slowly along,
stopping now and then to stare in feigned amazement, they heard
someone yell in the camp. A mounted squad of ten galloped out
from behind the tents, split into two, and surrounded them before
they could think of running. Trying to escape, in any case, would
have been a mistake. The leader of the squad, a gray-haired man
in the plaid brigga of the noble-born, guided his horse up to them.

“No need for trouble, lads,” he said. “I just want to know who you
are, and who you ride for.”

“My name’s Gwin, and this is Merryc, my lord, and we don’t ride for
any noble lord. We work for the merchant guild down in Lyn Ebon,
mostly as caravan guards, but they sent us up here with letters and
suchlike for the new guild in Dun Pyr.”

“Got some proof of that, lad? There’s a war on, and for all I know,
you’re spies.”

Gwin reached into his shirt and pulled off a thin chain with a stolen
seal ring of the guild in question. The lord examined it, grunted in
approval, and handed it back.

“My apologies, then. Ride on, but be careful on the road. Most like,
you won’t meet any trouble, but it pays a man to keep his eyes
open.”

“It does, my lord, and my thanks.”

The lord waved his arm, the squad parted and let them through,
directly by a man who had to be Rhodry from his description. Luck
and twice luck, Gwin thought, but he let nothing show on his face
but a careful indifference as he casually glanced the silver
dagger’s way. With the same indifference, Rhodry looked back,
then turned his horse and followed the squad back to camp.
Neither Gwin nor Merryc spoke until they had gone another mile or
so; then Merryc laughed, a dark chuckle under his breath.

“Well and good, then. I won’t need to be ordering the Wildfolk
about from now on.”

“Have the others seen him yet?”

“They haven’t. I talked to Briddyn through the fire last night, and
they’re still too far south. They won’t need to do their own scrying,
anyway, unless somewhat happens to me.”

“It won’t. That’s why I’m along.”

“Arrogant, aren’t you?” Merryc turned in the saddle and smiled at
him. “But I won’t deny that you’re the best swordsman in the
Brotherhood. Let’s hope you can best Rhodry if things come to
that.”

“Let’s hope they don’t. Remember, they want him alive.”

During the first days after the army rode out, while the dun waited
tensely for news, Jill spent a fair amount of time with Perryn,
usually out in the woods. The cure, if such it was, of sun and open
air was doing him far more good than bed rest. Soon the dark
circles were gone, and he could spend a whole day awake. Yet no
matter how much time she spent with him, she never felt that she
was getting to know him, because he was as guarded and private
as one of the wild animals he loved so much. After that first day he
never mentioned his longing for Kerun’s priesthood again. When
she tried to talk about his kin or the life of the dun, he always drifted
into saying some daft thing that put an end to the conversation.
Although he seemed to be glad of her company, at times she
wondered if he would prefer to be alone. On the third day,
however, she had a disturbing revelation of his feelings.

In the afternoon they went out for their usual walk, but this time he
told her to lead the horse a little farther into the forest, where there
was a tiny stream bordered by ferns that he wanted her to see.
After she watered his gray, Jill dutifully admired the ferns, then sat
down next to him in the cool shade.

“We should be getting news of the army soon,” he remarked. “If
here was a battle, they’d send messages.”

“Let’s pray they’re on their way home, and without another army
chasing them.”

“True-spoken. Though . . . ah, er, oh, well . . . ”

Jill waited patiently while he collected his thoughts. She was
beginning to get used to his lapses.

“Er, ah, it’s been splendid sitting out in the woods with you. No
doubt we won’t be able to when Rhodry rides home.”

“Of course not. Rhodry can turn rotten jealous, even though he’s
got no reason to be.”

“Oh. Er, ah, he doesn’t have any reason to be?”

“None, my lord.”

She went on guard, waiting to see how he would take her firm
dismissal. For a moment, he considered the ferns sadly.

“None, is it?” he said at last. “Truly?”

He turned his head and smiled at her, a peculiar sort of smile, open
and intense, that seemed to reach out and wrap round, troubling
her will with a warmth as palpable as a touch of a hand. When she
wrenched her eyes away, he laid a gentle hand on her cheek. She
twisted away and knocked his hand off, but he smiled again in a
way that made him seem to glow. She stared at him, because for a
moment she was incapable of moving. When he kissed her, his
mouth was soft, gentle, but sensual with a thousand promises.

“You truly are beautiful,” he whispered.

With a wrench of will, she shoved him away.

“Now, here,” she snapped. “There can’t be any more of this
between us.”

“And why not?”

His smile was so disturbing that Jill scrambled up and stepped
back as if he were an enemy with a sword. He made no effort to
follow, merely watched her with his head tilted in a childlike,
questioning way. When she stepped back a few more feet, she felt
the spell break.

“I’m going back to the dun,” she snarled. “Obviously you’ve got the
strength to ride back alone.”

As she jogged back to the dun, she was debating the problem. He
can’t be dweomer—he must be dweomer—where would he even
have learned it—but what else could that be? Now that she was
away from him, the incident was oddly blurred in her mind, as if it
had never truly been registered in her rational memory. She
decided that, dweomer or not, she was going to avoid being alone
with Perryn from now on. When he returned, late in the afternoon,
she saw him from across the great hall. He was so bland, so vague
and awkward, that she found herself wondering if she’d dreamt the
incident by the stream.

Hunkered down in the middle of the field, the lords were parleying,
Aegwyc with ten of his men for an escort, Graemyn with ten of his,
one of whom, was Rhodry. Since he was the man who’d killed
Aegwyc’s brother, he had to be there to admit it if the lord
demanded. He profoundly hoped that he wouldn’t, even though
Graemyn assured him that he would pay the lwdd himself. So far
Graemyn had had little chance to say anything, because Benoic
was doing most of the talking.

“So it’s settled then?” Benoic said at last

“It is.” Aegwyc sounded very tired, “I’ll abide by the high king’s
arbitration—provided I feel it’s fairly run.”

“And I’ll do the same,” Graemyn broke in before Benoic could
agree for him. “I swear it on. the honor of my clan.”

“And I on mine.” With a sigh, Aegwyc rose, staring past them to the
full army. Rhodry supposed that he was counting up the odds
against the few men, he could muster. “Send me a herald when the
king’s men arrive.”

“I will.” Benoic got to his feet and waved the rest of the men up.
“You have my hand on that.”

Solemnly they shook hands. For a moment Aegwyc lingered,
looking over the ten men around the tieryn. He would know that one
of them had to be his brother’s killer, and he looked each one full in
the face, pausing a little longer when he came to Rhodry. Rhodry
looked boldly back and saw the lord’s mouth tighten in bitterness.
There was only one reason that a silver dagger would be part of
this parley, after all. With a sudden wrench Aegwyc turned and led
his men away. Rhodry let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.

“Ah, you killed the bastard fairly, silver dagger,” Benoic said.

“So I did, but still, it’s a hard thing to look a man’s kin in the face
when you’ve brought him his Wyrd.”

As he mounted his horse for the ride back to camp, Rhodry had
the feeling that someone was staring at him. He twisted in the
saddle to look, but everyone around him, was busy mounting up.
No one would be staring at me, anyway, he thought, unless
Aegwyc can send the evil eye from far away.

Yet the feeling persisted for a moment before it faded. During the
long ride back to Graemyn’s dun, he would feel it every now and
then, that someone, somehow, and for some strange reason, was
spying on him.

“I’m cursed glad to see your arm out of that sling,” Nedd remarked.

“So am I,” Perryn said.

He picked up a leather ball, hard-packed with straw, and began
squeezing it repeatedly to exercise his hand. Soon he would have
to start working his arm, too, but it ached so much that he wanted to
wait a day or so. Nedd paced back and forth across the small
bedchamber and watched with a worried frown.

“Will that heal up properly?” he said.

“Don’t know yet. I never was much good with a sword anyway. It’s
not like I’ve got fine-honed skills to lose.”

“Well, the war’s over, if you ask me. Aegwyc can’t cause much
trouble. His brother bled the demesne white for his war with
Graemyn.”

“So is our uncle going to pull out?”

“Not him. He’s having a fine time bullying Graemyn and doing his
talking for him. But I know it aches your heart to be shut up inside a
dun like this. You could just ride on if you like.”

“My thanks, but I’ll stay. Just in case . . . oh, ah, er, well, somewhat
happens.”

“Even if the fighting did break out again, you wouldn’t be able to
join us with your arm so weak.”

“I know. Not the point, you see.”

“And what is the point?”

“Oh, er, ah, Jill.”

“What? You’re daft! Rhodry could cut you into shreds, and I mean
no insult, because he could do the same to me—easily.”

“No reason it has to come to an open fight, is there?”

“Oh, none at all. There’s no reason that the sun has to rise every
morning, either, but somehow it always does.”

His hands on his hips, Nedd considered Perryn as if he were
thinking of drowning him.

“I wager I can get Jill away from him,” Perryn said.

“Of course. That’s why I’m so blasted worried. Ye gods, I’ve never
known a man with your luck for the lasses. How do you do it,
anyway?”

“Just smile at them a lot and flatter them. It can’t be any different
than what most men do.”

“Indeed? It’s never worked that well for me.”

“Oh, you’re probably not smiling the right way. You’ve got to . . . oh,
er, let some warmth flow out with it. Easy, once you get the knack.”

“Then you’ll have to tell me how. But here, if you lay a snare for Jill,
you’ll likely catch a wolf in it.”

“The wolf’s going to be following my beloved cousin’s orders and
riding with him all over Cerrgonney.”

“I can’t do that. It’s dishonorable.”

“What about all those times I lied to our uncle for your sake? That
was dishonorable, too.”

“So it was. Do you want a night in Jill’s bed as badly as all this?”

“I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I do her.”

“Ah, curse you, you bastard! Well and good, then. Rhodry and I will
find somewhere to ride together.”

“My thanks, cousin. My most humble thanks.”

They had a long wait ahead of them while the speeded courier
traveled the two hundred-odd miles to Dun Deverry. Although he
could buy a swift passage on one of the many barges that sailed
down from the mountain mines on the Camyn Yraen, he would
have to ride back. In other parts of the kingdom, of course, there
would have been local gwerbrets to bear their appeal, but the
various gwerbrets who had once ruled in Cerrgonney warred so
incessantly among themselves that King Maryn the Second had
abolished the rank in the summer of 962, After a bloody rebellion,
his son, Casyl the Second, made the decree of abolishment stick
in 984. From then on, the kings personally took the fealty of every
Cerrgonney lord and judged the various squabbles among them.

During the wait, Perryn stalked Jill, but from a wary distance, always
watching for those rare times when Rhodry left her alone. The
moments were hard to catch, because she was doing her best to
avoid him. Since she was the first woman who’d ever resisted his
strange appeal, he was puzzled, but the resistance only made her
the more desirable. Finally his chance came to make his move. At
sunset on the tenth day, Graemyn’s courier returned, with the news
that the king would most graciously take this matter under his regal
judgment. In fact, a herald and a legal councillor were coming
directly behind him on the road.

“Splendid!” Benoic said. “Now, here, Graemyn, you’ve got to send
an honor guard along to meet them.”

“I was just about to say exactly that. If one of my noble allies would
care to take his warband on this errand, I’d be most grateful.”

Perryn shot Nedd a pointed glance. Nedd sighed.

“I’ll do it gladly, Your Grace,” Nedd said. “I have six men left as well
as my silver dagger. Will that be the proper size for the escort?’

“Exactly right. If the warband’s too large, Aegwyc might claim
intimidation. My thanks, Lord Nedd.”

Nedd scowled Perryn’s way with a face as sour as if he’d bitten into
a Bardek citron. Perryn merely smiled in return.

“Well, my love, we’ll be riding out at dawn.”

Jill went cold with fear.

“Oh here, what’s so wrong?” Rhodry went on. “We won’t be in the
slightest danger.”

“I know.” She found it very hard to speak. “It’s just that we’ve been
apart so much.”

“I know, but I’ve got plenty of battle loot, and the reward from
Tieryn Graemyn, so once this hire’s over, we’ll settle into a decent
inn for a while.”

With a nod, she turned away, tempted to tell him the truth, that she
was afraid of being left in the same dun as Perryn, but the truth
might lead to bloodshed. Although she would have been pleased
by the sight of Perryn lying dead, his kin would only cut Rhodry
down in turn. He put his arms around her and drew her close.

“I’ll be back soon, my love.”

“I hope so.” She reached up and kissed him. “Rhoddo, oh,
Rhoddo, I love you more than I love my life.”

As it turned out, the warband left a good hour after dawn, because
Nedd and his men could never leave a place simply and easily.
When they were finally on their way, Jill stood at the gates for a
long time, wishing she could ride with them, feeling the dweomer
cold run down her back in warning. When she turned she found
Perryn watching her. She brushed past him without so much as a
“good morrow” and hurried to the safe company of Lady Camma
and her serving women. All day she avoided him and that night she
barred her chamber door from the inside.

On the morrow, however, Perryn caught her alone. Jill had gone
down to the stables to tend Sunrise, as she never left him to the
slipshod attentions of stableboys. She was just leading him back to
his clean stall when Perryn strolled over.

“Good morrow,” he said. “I was thinking of going riding. Won’t you
come with me?”

“I won’t, my lord.”

“Please don’t call me ‘lord’ all the time.”

Then he smiled his warm bewitchment, coiling round her heart.

“I love you, Jill.”

“I don’t give a pig’s fart. Leave me alone!”

When she stepped back, she found herself against the stall door.
With another smile, he laid his hand on her cheek, a touch that
flooded her with warmth. Dweomer, she thought, it has to be
dweomer. When he kissed her, she knew in a nightmarish way that
she was weakening, that she was sorely tempted to betray Rhodry
for this skinny, daft, nondescript man.

“We could ride into the meadow,” he whispered. “It’s lovely out in
the sun.”

His words—the very rational act of speaking—broke the spell. She
shoved him so hard that he nearly fell and twisted free.

“Leave me alone!” she snarled. “Love me all you want, but I belong
to Rhodry.”

As soon as she was back in the great hall, her fear turned to
hatred, a blind murderous thing because he’d made her feel
helpless, her, who could fight with the best of men and fend for
herself on the long road. If she could have murdered him and
escaped scot-free, she would have. All day her fury grew as she
watched him stalk her. Finally, early in the evening she noticed that
he’d left the hall. A servant told her that he’d gone to bed because
his wound was bothering him. Good, she thought, may it burn like
fire! As she sipped a last tankard of ale in the company of the other
women, she barely listened to their talk. She would have to do
something about Lord Perryn, she decided, and then finally thought
of the obvious place to turn for help. Nevyn. Of course! He’d
understand, he’d tell her what to do. She got a candle lantern, then
went up to her chamber. Using the candle flame, she could contact
him, wherever he might be.

She went into the chamber, set the lantern down, then barred the
door. As she turned round, she saw Perryn, sitting so quietly in the
curve of the wall that she’d never noticed him, her mind full of
dweomer thought. When she swore at him, he grinned at her, but it
was only an ordinary sort of triumphant smile.

“Get out! Get out right now, or I’ll throw you out bodily.”

“What a nasty tongue you have, my love.”

“Don’t you call me that.”

“Jill, please.” He gave her one of those entrancing smiles. “Let me
stay with you tonight.”

“I won’t.” But she heard her voice waver.

Smiling, always smiling, he walked toward her. She felt mead-
muddled, her thoughts hard to form, harder yet to voice, and she
tried to move away, she staggered. He caught her by the
shoulders, then kissed her, his mouth so warm and inviting on hers
that she returned the kiss before she could stop herself. Her body
was as out of control as a river in full spate. When he wrapped his
arms around her and kissed her again, she wondered if she’d ever
truly wanted a man before or merely been like a young lass, flirting
without even knowing what she’s offering.

“You know you want me to stay,” he whispered. “I’ll leave early. No
one has to know or see a thing.”

When she forced herself to think of Rhodry, she had just enough
strength to shove him away, but he caught her wrists and pulled her
back. Although she struggled, her knees seemed to have turned to
lead and her arms to water. Still with his ensorceling smile, he
pulled her back and kissed her. She felt herself give in with one
last muddled thought that Rhodry would never have to know. The
pleasure she felt came from her surrender as much as his
caresses. She could hardly let go of him long enough for them to
get into bed, and once they were lying down, she was trembling.
Yet Perryn himself was in no hurry, kissing her, caressing her,
taking off their clothing one piece at a time, then caressing her for
a while more. When he finally lost his patient reserve, his passion
for her was frightening. She could only surrender to her own, let it
match his and carry her where it willed.

Afterward, she lay in his arms and clung to him while the candlelight
cast a pale, dancing glow on a world gone strange. The stone walls
seemed alive, swelling and shrinking rhythmically as tthey
breathed. The light itself broke up and flared as if it came from a
great fire to fall on shards of glass. If Perryn hadn’t kissed again,
she would have been frightened, but his lovemaking was too
engrossing for her to think of anything else. When they were
finished she fell asleep in his arms.

She woke suddenly a few hours later to find him asleep beside
her. In the lantern the candle stub guttered in a spill of wax. For a
moment she was so confused that she wondered what he was
doing there, but an odd bit at a time, she remembered. She nearly
wept in shame. How could she have betrayed her Rhodry? How
could she have played the slut with a man she hated? She sat up,
waking him.

“Get out of here,” Jill said. “I never want to see you again.”

He merely smiled and reached for her, but the candle went out with
a last dancing flare. A red eye in the dark, the wick slowly faded. In
the darkness she was freed from his smile, and she got up before
he could grab her.

“Get out, or I’ll find my sword and cut you in pieces.”

Without a word of argument he got up and began searching for his
clothes. She leaned against the wall, because the room seemed to
be spinning around her. Every little scuffle or rustle Perryn made
was unnaturally loud, as if the noise echoed in a chamber ten times
the size. Finally he was done.

“I truly do love you,” he said meekly. I’d never just trifle with you
once and then desert you.”

“Get out! Get out now!”

With a dramatic sigh he slipped out, shutting the door behincd him.
Jill fell onto the bed, clutched her pillow, and sobbed into it until
finally she’d cried herself to sleep. When she woke, sunlight
poured into her chamber window as thickly as a flood of honey. For
a long time she lay there, wondering at light made solid. The
dented pewter candle lantern shone like the finest silver, and even
the gray stone of the walls seemed to pulse within this splendid
light. With some difficulty she dressed, because the patterns of
stains and pulled threads on her clothing were as engrossing as
fine needlework. When she went to the window, she thought she’d
never seen such a fine summer day, the sky so bright it was like
sapphire. Down below in the ward stableboys were tending horses
and the sound of hooves on cobbles drifted up like the chime of
bells. Her gray gnome appeared on the windowsill.

“Do you know how I’ve shamed myself?”

It gave her a look of utter incomprehension.

“Good. Oh ye gods, I might be able to live with myself over this,
and then again, I might not. Pray that Rhodry never finds out.”

Puzzled, the little creature hunkered down and began picking its
toes. She realized that its skin, instead of being the uniform gray
she’d always thought it, was made up of colors, many different
ones in minute specks, that merely blended to gray from a
distance. She was so busy examining it that she didn’t hear the
door opening until it was too late. She spun around to find Perryn,
his hands full of wild roses, smiling at her.

“I picked these out in the meadow for you.”

Jill was tempted to throw the lot right in his face, but their color
caught her. She had to take them, to study them, roses more lovely
than she’d ever seen, their petals the color of iridescent blood,
always shifting and gleaming, their centers a fiery gold.

“We’ve got to talk,” he said, “And we don’t have much time. We’ve
got to make a plan.”

“What? Plans for what?”

“Well, we can’t be here when Rhodry rides back.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I never want you in my bed
again.”

But he smiled, and this time, after their lovemaking, she felt the
bewitchment a hundredfold. Even as her thoughts grew muddled,
she knew that somehow he’d linked himself to her, that some
strange force was iowing through the link. Then he took her
shoulders and kissed her, the flowers crushed between them with
a waft of scent

“I love you so much,” he said. “I’ll never let you go. Come with me,
my love, come to the hills with me. That’s where we belong. Well
ride free together, all summer long.”

Jill had one last coherent thought, that he wasn’t daft: he was
downright mad. Then he kissed her again, and it was too difficult to
think.

Lord Nedd’s warband met the king’s herald a day and a half’s ride
from the dun. Rhodry was riding next to his lordship when they
crested a small hill and saw, down below them on the road, the
royal emissaries, all mounted on white horses with red trappings
set with gilded buckles. At the head came the herald, carrying a
polished ebony staff with a gold finial strung with satin ribbons.
Behind him rode an elderly man in the long dark tunic and gray
cloak of a legal councillor, with a page on a white pony at the man’s
side. Bringing up the rear were four of the king’s own warband,
wearing purple cloaks and carrying gold-trimmed scabbards. Nedd
stared slack-mouthed.

“Ye gods,” he said feebly. “I should have made the men put on
clean shirts.”

The two parties met in the road. When Nedd announced himself,
the herald, a blond young man with a long upper lip made longer by
pride, looked him over for a moment stretched to the limit of
courtesy.

“My humble thanks for the honor, Your Lordship,” he said at last. “It
gladdens my heart that Tieryn Graemyn takes our mission with
serious intent and grave heart.”

“Well, of course he does,” Nedd said. “Why else would he have
sent the wretched message in the first place?”

The herald allowed himself a small, icy smile. Rhodry urged his
horse forward, made a graceful half-bow in the saddle, and
addressed himself to the herald.

“O honored voice of the king, we give you greetings, and pledge
our very lives as surety for your safe passage.”

The herald bowed, visibly relieved to find someone who knew the
ritual salutations, even, if that someone was a silver dagger.

“My humble thanks,” he said. “And who are you?”

“A man who loves our liege more than his owe life.

“Then we shall be honored to ride beside you on our journey to
justice.”

“May the king’s justice live forever in the land.”

Rhodry had to tell Nedd how to dispose his men: his lordship to
ride with the herald, his warband to fall in behind the king’s men.
Rhodry himself was planning on taking the humblest place at the
very rear, but as he rode down the line, the councillor caught his
eye and beckoned him to fall, in beside him.

“So Rhodry Maelwaedd,” he said. “You’re still alive. I’ll tell your
honored mother that when next we meet at court.”

“I’d be most grateful, good sir but have I had the honor of meeting
you? Wretch that I am, I fear me I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Oh, I doubt if you, ever knew it It’s. Cunvelyn, and I know your lady
mother fairly well.” He considered Rhodry shrewdly for a moment.
“It truly does gladden my heart to see you alive and well. Doubtless
you haven’t heard the news from Aberwyn.”

“None, good sir, except what scraps the occasional traveler gives
me.”

“Ah. Well, your brother’s second wife appears to be barren, while
his cast-off lady was delivered of a fine healthy son.”

Rhodry swore under his breath with a most uncourtly oath, but the
councillor merely smiled. It was a moment he’d remember all his
life, a moment as unlikely as the sun rising suddenly in a midnight
sky, changing night magically into day. When Rhys died, he would
be Aberwyn’s heir, and he allowed himself to hope for the thing that
he’d long since given up hoping for: recall. Aberwyn was such an
important rhan that the king himself might well take a hand in
bringing home its heir from the dangers of the long road.

“I would advise you to keep yourself as safe as possible,”
Cunvelyn said. “Are you short up for coin?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good. Perhaps then you can avoid hiring out your sword
straightaway.”

“I will, good sir.”

Although Rhodry’s heart ached to ask more, he knew that the old
man’s court training would allow no more answers. For a few
moments they rode in silence; then Cunvelyn turned to him.

“Your little daughter’s well, by the by. Your lady mother keeps her
always by her side.”

Rhodry had to think for a moment before he remembered the
bastard he’d sired on a common-born lass. How many years ago
was it? he wondered. Three, I think.

“That’s most kind of my lady mother,” he said hurriedly. “And what
is she named?”

“Rhodda, to keep her father’s memory alive.”

“I see. Mother always did know how to badger Rhys.”

The councillor allowed himself the briefest of smiles.

Rhodry spent the rest of the journey in a fury of impatience to tell
Jill the councillor’s news. If he were reading the hints aright, soon
they would be back in Eldidd, living in the comfort and splendor he
assumed that she wanted. And this time, she would be more than
just his mistress. He was no longer a spoiled younger son who
needed a strong wife to keep him in rein; he was a man they
needed, a man in a position to make demands. He would get her a
title, settle land upon her as a dower gift, and marry her, no matter
what his mother and the king thought of it.

Late on a splendid sunny day, the herald and his escort rode up to
Graemyn’s dun. As they clattered through the gates, Rhodry was
looking around for Jill. The ward was full of riders, standing in a
reasonable excuse for a formation, while the two tieryns stood at
the door of the broch to greet their honored guest. In the
confusion, he saw no sign of her, nor did she come to meet him
while he stabled his horse and Nedd’s. Although he was rather hurt,
he thought little of it, assuming that Lady Camma had kept her at
her side for some reason, until Nedd came hurrying into the stable.

“My lord?” Rhodry said. “Is Jill in the great hall?”

“She’s not. Is Perryn in here?”

“He’s not. Isn’t he with the other noble-born?”

Nedd went a little pale about the mouth.

“Oh, by the black balls of the Lord of Hell!” Nedd snarled. “He
wouldn’t have—the rotten little weasel—oh, curse him for a pig’s
bollock!”

“My lord, what is all this?”

“I don’t know yet. Come with me.”

Rhodry tagged after as Nedd searched the great hall for Camma,
finally finding her as she gave orders to the servants about the
feast to come. When Nedd caught her arm, she saw Rhodry and
gasped, a little puff of breath.

“Oh, by the gods,” she said. “But you’ve got to know, and it best be
sooner than later, I suppose. Nedd, if I ever get my hands on your
misbegotten wretch of a cousin, I’ll beat him black and blue.”

“I’ll hold him down while you do it What’s he done with Jill?”

Camma laid a maternal hand on Rhodry’s arm, her large dark eyes
full of sincere apology.

“Rhodry, your Jill’s gone. All I can think is that she rode off with
Perryn, because he disappeared not an hour after she did. My
heart truly aches for you.”

Rhodry opened his mouth and shut it again, then clasped his sword
hilt so hard that the leather bindings bit into his palm. Nedd had
gone dead white.

“Did you know somewhat about this?” Rhodry growled.

“Oh, er, ah, well, not truly. I mean, ye gods! I knew he fancied your
lass, but I never thought anything would come of it.”

With a great effort of will, Rhodry reminded himself that it would be
dishonorable to kill him in front of a lady. Camma gave his arm a
little shake.

“Oh, come now,” she said. “Who in their right mind would ever
have thought that Jill would leave a man like you for one like
Perryn?”

His pride was sopped just enough to make him let go the hilt

“Now, here,” Nedd said to the lady. “Did my uncle know of this? I
can’t believe he’d let Perro do such a dishonorable thing.”

“And why do you think your wretched cousin slipped out like a
weasel? Benoic chased him with some of his men, but Perryn went
off through the forest. They never found a trace of him.”

Nedd started to answer, then simply stared at Rhodry. They were
in a terrible position, and they both knew it. If Rhodry swore bloody
vengeance where the lord could hear, he would be honor-bound to
stop Rhodry from riding—if he could. The fear in Nedd’s eyes was
satisfying to see.

“Now, here!” came Benoic’s bellow. “What’s all this?”

Hands on hips, the tieryn strode over and shoved himself between
them.

“I take it Rhodry’s found out the truth?”

“He has,” Camma said.

“Humph! Now listen, Nedd, your worm-riddled cousin’s in the
wrong, and you know it as well as I do. On the other hand, silver
dagger, she wasn’t legally your wife, so you’ve no right to kill him.
Beat him black and blue, decidedly, but not to kill him. Will you
make me a solemn oath that you won’t kill or maim him? If you do,
you ride out of here with my blessing and a bit of extra coin. If you
won’t, then you’re not leaving at all.”

Rhodry glanced around at the hall, filled with armed men.

“Now, now, come to your senses, lad,” Benoic went on. “I know
cursed well that the first thing a man thinks of in times like this is
spilling blood. But ask yourself this: if you cut your Jill’s throat,
wouldn’t you be weeping over her not five minutes later?”

“Well, Your Grace, so I would.”

“Good. I feel the shame my nephew laid upon his clan. Do you
want her back or not? If not, then I’ll pay you a bride price, just as if
she’d been your wife. If you do, then swear me that vow, and ride
with my aid.”

Faced with this scrupulous fairness, Rhodry felt his rage slip away.
In its place came a cold realization that nearly made him weep: Jill
didn’t love him anymore.

“Well, Your Grace, call me a fool if you want, but I do want her
back. I’ve got a thing or two to say to her, and by every god in the
Otherlands, I’ll find her if I search all summer long.”

“This is a bit of luck,” Merryc said.

“In a way,” Gwin said. “We won’t have to bother with the lass, sure
enough, but Rhodry’s going to be following her, not moving in the
direction we want him to.”

“Oh, indeed? Think, young one. From everything I’ve been able to
see, this Perryn fellow knows the woods like his mother’s tit. What
does a man like Rhodry know of woodcraft? When he was a lord,
he had foresters and game wardens to worry about such things,
and silver daggers stick to the roads.” He smiled gently. “I’ll talk to
Briddyn through the fire about this, but I think we’ve found the
perfect bait to lure our bird down to the seacoast. The only clues
he’ll find are the ones we throw in his path.”




TWO

All summer long Salamander, or Ebañy Salomonderiel, to give him
his full Elvish name, had been riding through Deverry and tracking
his brother down, but he’d done it slowly by a long, winding road,
because the People never hurried anywhere, and for all his human
blood, he’d been raised among the elves. Right at first, just over
the Eldidd border, he’d found a pretty lass who’d taken to more
than his songs; he idled in Cemmetyn with her for a pair of pleasant
weeks. Then, once he was up in Pyrdon, a noble lord paid him well
for entertaining the guests at his daughter’s wedding—six merry
days of feasting. After that, he wandered through Deverry, always
heading north to Cerrgonney, but sometimes lingering in an
interesting town for a few days here, a lord’s dun for an eightnight
there. When he’d scried Rhodry out and found him besieged, he’d
put on a good burst of speed, but only until he saw the siege lifted.
Then it had seemed that his brother would be perfectly safe for a
good long time, so he’d dallied again with another lass who’d been
faithfully waiting for him since the summer before. It had seemed
terribly dishonorable, after all, to just ride out quickly after she’d
waited for such a long time.

And so it was that he was some hundred miles to the east of
Graemyn’s dun on the sunny afternoon when Rhodry escorted the
herald and the councillor there. He’d made an early camp by a
stream, early simply because he was tired of riding, and tethered
his horses out in a tiny meadow before he went down to the
running water to scry. He saw Rhodry trembling as Camma told him
her news, and with so much emotion behind it, the vision was
strong enough so that he actually could hear—though not with his
physical ears—something of what was said. It seemed, indeed,
that he stood beside his brother as Benoic took the matter in hand,
then the vision vanished abruptly, banished by his own flood of
reeling. He leapt to his feet and swore aloud.

“By the gods!” He shook his head in amazement. “Who ever would
have thought it, indeed? I can’t believe Jill would desert him, I quite
simply can’t.”

Kneeling again, he stared at the sun-dancing water and thought of
Jill. Her image built up slowly, and when it came, it was oddly
wavering and blurred. She was sitting in a mountain meadow and
watching while Perryn tethered out three horses, including her
Sunrise. His first thought was that she was ill, because she sat so
quietly, her mouth slack like a half-wit’s, yet it was hard to see,
because the vision was so misty. With a toss of his head, he
dismissed it.

“Now, this looks most dire, peculiar, and puzzling. I think me I’d
best try for a better look.”

When he called aloud in Elvish for Wildfolk, four gnomes and a
sylph materialized in front of him.

“Listen carefully, little brothers. I’ve got a task for you, and if you do
it, I’ll sing you a song when you’re done. I want to go to sleep, and I
want you to stand here and watch for danger. If anyone or any
animal comes toward me, pinch me and wake me up.”

The gnomes nodded solemnly, while the sylph dipped and
hovered in the air. Salamander lay down on his back, crossed his
arms over his chest, and slowed his breathing until he felt that his
body was melding with the sun-warmed earth. Then he closed his
eyes and summoned his body of light. Unlike human dweomer-
masters, who use a solid, bluish form shaped like their own body,
the elven thought form is much like an enormous flickering flame,
yet with an ever-shifting face peering out of the silver light. Once
Salamander’s form lived steady in his imagination, he transferred
his consciousness over to it, at first only pretending to look out of
its eyes at his body lying below, then seeing the world in the bluish
etheric light. He heard a sound like a sharp click; he was out, on the
etheric plane, looking down from the flame shape at his sleeping
body, guarded by the Wildfolk, and joined to him by a long silver
cord.

Slowly he rose up, orienting himself to the valleys, bright red and
glowing with the dull auras of plants, and to the stream, which
exhaled elemental force in a rushy silver curtain that rose high
above the water. Getting entangled in that curtain could tear him
apart. Carefully he moved away from it before going higher, then
thought of Jill. He felt a certain tug pulling him in her direction, and
set off to follow it, For a long ways, impossible to measure on the
etheric, he sped over the dull-red forests, broken here and there
by brighter patches of farmlands, tended by the peasants whose
auras gleamed around them, pale yellows and greens, mostly, in
the bluish light of the plane. As he traveled he became more and
more aware of Jill’s presence, pulling him forward.

Yet in the end he had a guide. He had just flown high over a small
stream when he saw one of the Wildfolk coming toward him. In its
proper sphere the creature was a beautiful nexus of glowing lines
and colors, a deep olive, citrine, and russet with a spark here and
there of black, but it was obviously in distress, swelling up twice its
size, then shrinking and trembling.

“Here, here, little brother,” Salamander thought to it. “What’s so
wrong?”

For an answer it spun and danced, but dimly he could feel its
emotions: rage and despair for something it loved. He
remembered then Jill’s gray gnome.

“Do you know Jill?”

It bobbed and swelled with joy.

“I’m her friend. Take me to her.”

The gnome swept on ahead of him like a hunting dog. As he flew
after, dodging round the curves of a hill, Salamander saw far below
him the mountain valley, a red-glowing bowl of grass, dotted with
the dim silvery auras of the horses, and two human auras, Perryn’s
a strange green and gray that Salamander had never seen before,
Jill’s pale gold—but enormous, swelling up around her, sending off
billows, then shrinking again but to a size far too large for any
human being. When he dropped down toward her, he saw Perryn
turn and say something. From the young lord’s aura came a light-
shot surge, spilling over Jill like an ocean wave. In response, her
aura billowed and sucked the magnetic effluent up.

Salamander hovered, trembling with shock. At that moment, Jill
looked up, straight at him, and screamed aloud. She had seen his
body of light.

“Jill, I’m a friend!”

Yet although she could see him, she couldn’t seem to hear his
thought. She flung herself to her feet and pointed at him, yelling all
the while at Perryn, who merely looked puzzled. Salamander
swooped away, following the silver cord as fast as he dared back
to his body, which lay safely where he’d left it with the Wildfolk still
on guard. He swooped down until he hovered over it, then let
himself go. Again the click, and he felt flesh wrap him round, warm
and painfully heavy for a moment. He dismissed his body of light
then sat up, slapping his hand thrice on the ground to seal the end
of the working. The gnomes looked at him expectantly.

“My thanks, my friends. Come travel along with me for a while. I’ll
sing you the song I promised, but I’ve got to make speed, A good
friend of mine has been well and truly ensorceled.”

In a flood of silver light the dawn climbed up purple mountains and
washed over the meadow, a green torrent of grass that swirled in
the summer wind. Jill sat on their blankets and watched Perryn,
crouched down by the fire, where he was heating water in a little
iron kettle. He took his razor, a bit of soap, and a cracked mirror out
of his saddlebags and began to shave, as calmly and efficiently as
if he were in a bedchamber. Jill had a vague thought of slitting his
throat with the long sharp steel razor, or perhaps her silver dagger,
but thinking was very difficult.

“You’d best eat somewhat,” he remarked.

“In a bit.” Speaking was difficult, too. “I’m not truly hungry.”

Idly she looked away, only to see her gray gnome, hunkered down
some yards beyond Perryn. She was so glad to see the little
creature that she jumped up and ran over, but just as she bent
down to pick it up, it snarled, swiped at her with its claws, and
vanished. Very slowly she sat down right where she was,
wondering why the gnome was so angry at her. It seemed that she
should know, but the memory wouldn’t return. She picked up a
pebble from the grass and stared at it, a constant wavering flow of
crystalline structure made visible, until Perryn came to fetch her
away.

All that morning they rode through the forest, following long,
roundabout trails. Every tree was a living presence, leaning over
the trail and reaching down to her with, brushy fingers. Some
frightened, her; others seemed perfectly harmless; still others, a
definite few, seemed to be asking her to befriend them, with a
trembling outreach of leafy hands. When she looked away from the
trail, the forest changed into a maze of solid walls, broken only by
shafts of sunlight, as heavy as stone. Although at times Jill
considered simply riding away from Perryn, she was hopelessly
lost. Every now and then she thought of Rhodry and wondered if
he was trying to follow them. She doubted that he’d believe her
when she told him that she hadn’t ridden away of her own free
will—if, indeed, he ever caught them. How could he find her, when
the whole world had changed?

Every color, even the somber gray of the rocks, seemed as bright
and glowing as a jewel. Whenever they came to a clearing or a
mountain meadow, the sun poured over her like water; she could
swear that she felt it dripping and running down her arms. The sky
was a solid dome of lapis lazuli, and for the first time in her life she
truly believed that the gods traveled across the sky the way men
travel across the earth, just because the color truly did seem fit for
divinities. Under the heavy burden of all this beauty, she felt as if
she were reeling in her saddle, and at times tears ran down her
face, just from the loveliness. Once as they rode through a
meadow, a pair of larks broke cover and flew, singing their
heartbreaking trill as they went up and up into the azure, crystalline
sky, their wings rushing and beating in a tiny thunder. Jill saw then
that whatever else might happen, that moment, that beating of
wings, that stripe of sound would all endure eternally, as indeed
would every moment, a clear note in the unfolding music of the
universe. When she tried to tell Perryn of the insight, he only stared
at her and told her she was daft. She laughed, agreeing with him.

That afternoon, they camped early near a good-sized stream.
Perryn took a line and hook from his gear, remarked that he was
after fish, and wandered away upstream. For a long time Jill lay on
the bank and stared into the water, watching the Wildfolk in the
eddies, a white foam of little faces, traces of sleek bodies, little
voices and lives, melding and blending into each other. It seemed
that there was something that they wanted of her, and finally she
stripped off her clothes and joined them. Giggling, laughing, she
ducked and splashed in the water with the undines, tried to catch
them as they swam away from her, and for the first time she heard
them clearly, giggling in return, calling out her name, Jill, Jill, Jill,
over and over again. Then suddenly they shrieked and
disappeared. Jill turned in the water and looked up to see Perryn,
standing on the bank with a string of three trout in one hand. Her
heart sank, just as when a pupil looks up from a game to find her
tutor glaring with a piece of unfinished work in his hand.

Yet when she clambered up onto the bank, he was far from angry
with her, catching her, kissing her, wrapping her round with his
desire until she wanted him, too, and lay down willingly with him in
the grass. Afterward, he got up, dressed, and methodically began
cleaning the fish, but she lay naked in the soft grass and tried to
remember the name of the man she once had loved and who, or
so she suspected, still loved her. Although she could see his face
in her mind, her memory refused to give up his name. Puzzling
over it, she got up and dressed, then chanced to look down at the
stream. The Wildfolk were back, staring at her reproachfully.

“Rhodry, Jill,” they whispered. “How could you have forgotten your
Rhodry?”

She doubled over and wept, sobbing aloud. When Perryn came
rushing to comfort her, she shoved him away so hard that he
tripped and fell. Like a frightened animal she ran, racing through
the long grass of the clearing, plunging into the forest, only to catch
an ankle on a root and sprawl headlong. For a moment she lay
there panting, seeing how dark the trees were, how menacingly
they reached down to grab her. Now they looked like a line of
armed guards, raising weapons high. When he came to fetch her
back, she went without arguing.

That evening he built a fire and skewered the trout on green sticks
to roast them. Jill ate a few bites, but the food seemed to stick in
her month, the fish suddenly as cloying as pure honey. Perryn,
however, wolfed down his share as if he were starving, then fell
asleep by the fire. She watched him for a long time. Although it
would have been ridiculously easy to kill him, the memory of the
forest stopped her. If he died, she would be alone, trapped out
there, starving, wandering in circles, growing more and more
panicked—with the last of her will she wrenched her mind away
from the thoughts that were threatening to turn her hysterical.
Shaking, suddenly cold, she stared into the fire, where the spirits
were forming and falling in the flames, dancing along the wood that
this pair of humans had so thoughtfully provided. Jill could almost
hear them talking in the hiss and crackle. Then a log burned
through and fell with a shower of golden sparks. In the rushy dance
of flame, a proper face appeared, golden and shifting. When it
spoke, it was in a true voice, and one with authority.

“What is this, child? What’s so wrong?”

“Wrong?” She could barely stammer. “Is it?”

For a moment the face regarded her; then it was gone. Somewhat
bewildered, unable to think, Jill lay down next to Perryn and fell
asleep.

As formless as water, the days slipped into one another. Jill
couldn’t count them; she’d lost the very idea of counting, as if the
part of her mind that dealt with things like nights and coins had
fallen out of her saddlebags and gotten lost in the grass.
Whenever he spoke to her, it was hard to answer, because her
words became lost in the splendor of the forest, Fortunately he
rarely spoke, apparently contented with her silent presence near
him. At night, when they made camp, he was an eager lover,
wanting her in their blankets often before they’d eaten, then
bringing her dinner like a page as she lay drowsily by the fire. His
slow hesitance, his shuffling walk, his vague smiles and stumbling
words—all were gone. He was all laughter and calm efficiency, all
strength and life as he strode through the wild country. She
supposed that his daft mousiness was simply a shield he put up
when he was forced to live in the lands of men.

She was proven right when they rode into a village to buy food at
the open market. Perryn became his old self, looking aimlessly this
way and that, stumbling through every simple sentence as he
haggled for cheese and peaches, for loaves of bread from the
baker. Since Jill could speak no more clearly than he could, she
was of no help to him. Once she saw a farmer’s wife watching
them in puzzlement, as if she were wondering how a pair of halfwits
like they could survive on the road.

With the shopping done, they went to a tiny tavern for ale. After
nothing but spring water to drink, the ale tasted so good that Jill
savored every sip. Although the little room had dirty straw on the
floor, an unswept hearth, and battered tables, she was happy there.
It was good to see other people, her own kind, good to listen to
human voices instead of the endless wind through the forest and
the chatter of streams. A balding stout fellow, wearing the checked
brigga of a merchant, gave her a friendly smile.

“Here, lass,” he said. “Why do you carry a silver dagger?”

“Oh, ah, er, well,” Jill said. “My father was a silver dagger, you see.
It’s a reminder of him.”

“A pious gesture, truly.”

Jill had the sudden startling experience of hearing him think: A
pretty lass, but stupid; ah well, wits don’t matter in a lass. The
thought was as clear in her mind as if he’d spoken aloud, but she
decided that she was only deluding herself. When it was time to
leave the tavern, she wept, simply because they were going back
to the lonely wilderness.

That afternoon they rode through low rolling hills, where the pine
forest thinned, and farms appeared in sheltered valleys. Jill had no
idea of where they were; all she knew was that the sun rose the
east and set in the west. They made camp, however, in a place
Perryn knew well, or so he said, a tiny vale, along a stream, and
bordered with white birches. Before he lit the fire, he gave Jill a
kiss.

“Let’s lie down,” he said.

All at once, the thought of making love with him filled her with
revulsion. When she shoved him away, he caught her by the
shoulders and pulled her to him. Although she tried to wrestle free,
his superior strength told against her. He grabbed her, lifted her,
and laid her struggling on the ground. She fought against him but
even as she did, she knew that she was slowly, inexorably giving in
to him, fighting with only half her strength, letting him steal a kiss
here and there, then a caress, then finally surrendering, letting him
take her, press her down, and turn her world to a fire of pleasure.
When he lay down next to her, he started to speak, then fell asleep
in openmouthed exhaustion.

Jill lay next to him and watched the sunset coming through the
branches like a shower of gold coins. The white birches glowed
with an inner fire, as if they were watching them and blessing them
in silent presences. She could hear the stream running nearby in
little voices, the aimless chatter of the Wildfolk. Just as the sunset
was fading into twilight, Perryn sat up with a yawn and a gasp. She
saw dark circles under his eyes, two livid pools of shadow. For a
moment he stared, at her as if he hardly knew where they were.

“Are you all right?” Jill said.

“Oh, er, well, just tired.”

Yet as the evening wore on, she realized that things went far
beyond his being tired. When they ate, he gobbled the food, then
fell asleep again. She sat by the fire and watched the birches
glowing, bending close, it seemed, to study this pair of intruders in
the grove. For one moment she thought she saw someone
standing among the trees and watching her, but when she got up
for a closer look, the shadowy form disappeared. In a bit Perryn
woke again and stumbled over to the fire. A leap of flame washed
his face with light and seemed to cover it with blood; his eyes
seemed great hollow rents in a mask. Jill cried, out at the sight.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

Yet she had no words to tell him what she instinctively knew, that
their afternoon’s lovemaking had driven them to a crisis point, just
as when a warrior rides a charge, thinking of naught but the flash of
steel around him, only to find himself behind the enemy line, cut off
and alone when it’s too late to ride back.

When he left Graemyn’s dun, Rhodry had no idea of which way to
ride. For the first day, he went west, but at sunset the gray gnome
appeared at his camp and threw itself into his arms to cling to him
like a frightened child.

“There you are! Here, my friend, where’s Jill?”

The gnome considered, pointed east, then disappeared. I’ve
wasted a whole blasted day, he thought. Then, even in the midst of
his despair, he felt that strange sensation of being watched.

For three days more, he rode east. He felt more like a storm than a
man, his rage and desperation mingling to drive his mind this way
and that, tearing his reason to shreds as he swept down the forest
road. At times, he wanted to find her only to slit her throat; at
others, he swore to himself that if only he could have her back, he
would never ask a single question about what she’d done with
Perryn. Gradually he felt more hopelessness than rage. Perryn
could have taken her any way at all, slipping deep into the forest
where he’d never find them. His one hope was the gnome, who
came to him at odd moments. Always it pointed east, and it was
filled with fury, gnashing its teeth and clutching its head at any
mention of Perryn. Sooner or later, or so Rhodry hoped, it would
lead him back to Jill.

Late on a day when white clouds piled in the sky and threatened
rain, Rhodry was riding along a narrow track when he came to a
clearing. Beside the road was a small wooden round house with
two oaks growing in front of the door. He dismounted, led his horse
over, and called out a halloo. In a few moments an aged man with
the shaved head and golden torc of a priest of Bel came out

“Good morrow, Your Holiness,” Rhodry said.

“May the gods bless you, lad. What troubles your heart so?”

“Oh, by the hells, do I look as wretched as that?”

The priest merely smiled, his dark eyes nearly lost in wrinkled folds
of pouched eyelids. He was as thin as a stick, his ragged tunic
hanging loose, his fingers like gnarled twigs.

“I’m looking for someone, you see,” Rhodry went on. “And I’ve
about given up hope of ever finding her. A blond lass, beautiful, but
she always dresses like a lad, and she carries a silver dagger.
She’d be riding with a skinny red-haired fellow.”

“Your wife left you for another man?”

“Well, she did, but how did you know?”

“It’s a common enough tale, lad, though I’ve no doubt it pains you
as if you were the first man ever deserted by a woman.” He sighed
with a shake of his head. “I haven’t seen her, but come in and ask
the gods to help you.”

More to please the lonely old hermit than in any real hope of getting
an omen, Rhodry followed him into the dim, musty-smelling shrine,
which took up half the round house. On the flat side stood the
stone altar, covered with a rough linen cloth to hide the bloodstains
from the sacrifices. Behind it rose a massive statue of Bel, carved
from a tree trunk, the body roughly shaped, the arms distinguished
by mere cuts in the wood and the tunic indicated only by scratches.
The face, however, was beautifully modeled, large eyes staring out
as if they saw, the mouth so mobile it seemed that it would speak.
Rhodry made a formal bow to the king of the world, then knelt
before him while the priest stood to one side. In the shadowy light
it seemed that the god’s eyes turned his worshipper’s way.

“O most holy lord, where’s my Jill? Will I ever see her again?”

For a moment silence lay thick in the temple; then the priest spoke
in a hollow, booming voice utterly unlike his normal tone.

“She rides down dark roads. Judge her not harshly when you meet
again. One who holds no fealty to me holds her in thrall.”

Rhodry felt a cold shudder of awe laced with fear. The god’s eyes
considered him, and the voice spoke again.

“You have a strange Wyrd, man from Eldidd, you who are not truly
a man like other men. Someday you’ll die serving the kingdom, but
it’s not the death you would ever have dreamt for yourself. Men will
remember your name down the long years, though your blood run
over rock and be gone. Truly, they’ll remember it twice over, for
twice over will you die.”

Suddenly the priest threw up his hands and clapped them together
hard. Dazed, Rhodry looked around. The statue was only a piece
of wood, cleverly carved. The god had gone.

All that day, while he traveled fast along, Rhodry puzzled over the
omen. What did it mean, that Jill rode down dark roads? He
desperately wanted it to mean that Perryn had somehow forced
her to come with him rather than her going willingly, but it was hard
to convince himself of that, because Jill could have slain the lord
easily if he had tried violence. Still, he clung to the first bit of hope
he had that she still loved him. His heart was so torn for love of and
fear for her that he never remembered the rest of the omen til
years later, that, contrary to all nature and all sense, he would die
twice over.

On the morrow, the meaning of the part of the omen that dealt with
Jill came clearer when he reached a small village. In the tiny tavern
he got his first hot meal and tankard of ale in days. As he was
eating mutton stew by the unswept hearth, the tavernman strolled
over to gossip.

“You’re the second silver dagger we’ve seen in here lately,” he
said. “Or, well, I don’t suppose this lass was truly a silver dagger.”

“A blond lass?” Rhodry’s heart was pounding even as he spoke
casually. “Beautiful, but dressed like a lad?”

“Just that! Do you know her?”

“I do. How long ago were she and her red-haired lad in here? I’d
like to see Jill and Perryn again.”

The tavernman considered, scratching his bald spot.

“Not more than four nights ago, I’d say. Friends of yours, are they?
Neither of them are much for words, I must say.”

“Oh, Perryn never says much, truly.” Rhodry tried to sound
cheerfully friendly. “But usually his lass is good for a bit of chatter.”

“Indeed? Then she must be ill or suchlike, because it was hard for
her to say two words together. One of those thick-headed lasses,
think I, all pretty face with nothing between her two ears.”

“Here, I hope she wasn’t ill. She’s usually as bright as a lark and
twice as merry.”

The tavernman considered a long moment.

“Well, maybe she and that man of hers had a bit of a scrap. From
the way she looked at him, I’d say he beats her a good bit. Fair
terrified, she looked.”

Rhodry’s hand tightened on the tankard so hard that his knuckles
went white. Riding down dark roads, he thought, I see.

“But be that as it may, lad, they went south when they left here. She
said she was riding south, to find her grandfather.”

For a moment Rhodry was puzzled. Nevyn! he thought. Of course
that’s how she’d describe him.

“Well and good, then, and my thanks.” He tossed the man a piece
of Benoic’s silver.

Leaving the tankard unfinished, Rhodry rode out fast, heading for
the crossroads and the track that would take him south.

The tavernman watched, rubbing Rhodry’s coin, until the silver
dagger was out of sight. All at once he felt both guilty and
frightened. Why had he lied like that, and all for the couple of coins
that the strange fellow had given him? He hated to lie. Dimly he
remembered arguing with the fellow, but here, after all he’d said,
he’d gone and done it. He wished he had a horse, so that he could
ride after the silver dagger and tell him the truth. He shook himself
and looked up. The village idiot, poor old Marro, was shuffling
along the street. The tavernman flung him Rhodry’s coin.

“Here, lad, take that home to your mother, and tell her I said she’s
to buy you cloth for a new shirt.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Marro ran off. The tavernman went back
to his customers.

“South?” Salamander said aloud. “How by every boil on the Lord of
Hell’s balls did Rhodry know to turn south?”

The Wildfolk clustered around his campfire seemed to be
pondering the question.

“My apologies, little brothers. Just a rhetorical question.”

Stretching, Salamander got up and frowned at the night sky while
he wished he’d scried Rhodry out earlier. Since he was not much
more than an apprentice at dweomer, it was difficult for him to scry
without a focus of some sort and impossible when he was
occupied with something else, such as riding horseback, As he
thought about it, he supposed that Rhodry was riding south out of a
simple desperation that had brought him a silver dagger’s luck.
Without dweomer, he himself would never have been able to track
Jill down, because that strange man of hers knew the woods as
well as a wild deer did. As it was, of course, he knew exactly where
they were, just ten miles to the northeast of him, so that, indeed,
Rhodry was to the north of them, and on the right road by heading
south, The question was, how did Rhodry know it?

“Tomorrow, little brothers, tomorrow we track this bear to his den.”

In unease the Wildfolk rustled around, him shoving and pinching
each, other, opening their mouths in gaping expressions of despair
and hatred. Salamander shuddered in honest fear. For all he knew,
the man that had stolen Jill was a dweomermaster of great power,
and he was riding to his doom.

“You know, I suppose I really should contact Nevyn and tell him
about all this.”

The Wildfolk all nodded a vigorous yes.

“But on the other hand, suppose I do, and he tells me that I should
leave this nasty mess strictly alone. How then could I redeem
myself for my dilatory ways this summer? I think me I’d best just
just continue on.”

The Wildfolk threw their hands in the air, stuck out their tongues at
him, and disappeared in a wave of pure disgust.

In the morning, the dark circles under Perryn’s eyes looked as
purple as fresh bruises against his unnaturally pale skin. His red
hair no longer flamed; rather it was as dull and matted as the fur of
a sick cat. He worked slowly, taking things out of his saddlebags,
staring at them for a moment, then putting them back while Jill sat
nearby and watched him.

“You truly do look ill,” she said.

“Just tired.”

She wondered why she cared if he were ill or not, but in truth, she
was coming to see him as much a victim of his strange powers as
she was. The thought came to her only intermittently, however;
thoughts of any sort were rare these days. The pieces of gear in
Perryn’s hands seemed to be changing size constantly,
sometimes swelling, sometimes shrinking, and they had no edges
in any proper sense, just lines of shimmering force that marked
where they met the air. Finally he pulled out a plain rod of iron,
about a finger thick, set in a wooden handle.

“Thank every god,” he said. “Here I thought I’d lost it.”

“What is it?”

“A rambling scribe. Never tell anyone I’ve got one, will you? You
can get hanged for carrying one in Cerrgonney.”

None of this made any sense at all. She forced herself to pick it
apart, a little at a time.

“We’re still in Cerrgonney?” she asked at last.

“We are, but in the southern part. Nearly to Gwaentaer.”

“Oh. And what’s that thing for?”

“Changing a horse’s brand.”

“And why will they hang you for having one?”

“Because only a horse thief would carry one.”

“Then why are you carrying one?”

“Because I’m a horse thief.”

Jill stared openmouthed at him.

“Where do you think I get the coin we’ve been spending?” He was
grinning in amusement, “I take a horse from some noble lord, sell it
to one of the men I know, and well, there we are.”

Somewhere, deep in her mind, Jill remembered that thievery was a
wrong thing. She thought about it while she watched him repack the
saddlebags. Thieving was wrong, and being a horse thief was the
worst of all. If you took a man’s horse, he could die out in the
wilderness. Da always said so. Da was always right.

“You shouldn’t take horses,” she said.

“Oh, I only take them from men who can afford the loss.”

“It’s still wrong.”

“Why? I need them, and they don’t.”

Although she knew that there was a counter to this argument, she
couldn’t remember it. She leaned back and watched the sylphs
playing in the light breeze, winged forms of brilliant crystal, darting
and dodging after each other in long swoops and glides.

“I’ll be leaving you here later,” Perryn said in a moment. “We’re low
on coin, and I’ve got to take a horse.”

“You will come back, won’t you?” Suddenly she was terrified, sure
that she would be hopelessly lost without him. “You won’t just leave
me here?”

“What? Of course not. I love you more than I love my life. I’ll never
leave you.”

He drew her into his arms and kissed her, then held her close. She
was unsure of how long they sat together in the warm sun, but
when he let her go, the sun was close to zenith. She wandered
over the stream and lay down to watch the Wildfolk sporting there
until she fell asleep.

Late that same afternoon, Rhodry came to Leryn, one of the
biggest towns in Cerrgonney with about five hundred houses
huddled behind a low stone wall on the banks of the Camyn Yraen.
Since Leryn was an important port for the river barges that brought
the mountain iron down into Deverry, he was planning on buying a
passage downriver for a ways to save himself some time and to
give himself and his horse a much-needed rest. First, though, he
went to the market square and asked around about Jill and Perryn.
Quite a few of the locals knew the eccentric Lord Perryn well.

“He’s daft,” said the cheese seller. “And if that lass is riding with
the likes of him, she’s even dafter than he is.”

“A bit more than daft he is,” snorted the blacksmith. “I’ve wondered
many a time where he gets all those horses.”

“Ah, he’s noble-born,” chimed in the cloth merchant. “The noble-
horn have horses to spare, they do. But I haven’t seen him in many
long week now, silver dagger, and I’ve never seen a lass like you
described.”

“No more have I,” said the cheese seller. “She sounds a bit of a
hard case, she does.”

As he went back to the cheap tavern he’d marked earlier, Rhodry
was wondering if Jill and Perryn had taken a different road south. If
so, he’d have to abandon his plans for the river, in case he passed
them by. As he was stabling his horse, a fellow came out to join
him, a rather nondescript man with the bent back of a wandering
peddler.

“You the silver dagger who was asking for Lord Perryn?”

“I am, and what’s it to you?”

“Naught, but I might have a bit of information for you for the right
price.”

Rhodry took two silver pieces from his pouch and held them
between his fingers. The peddler grinned.

“I came up this way from the southeast. I stayed one night in a little
village inn, oh, some thirty miles from here, it was. I was trying to
get my sleep about dawn that night when I heard someone yelling
out in the stable yard. So I sticks my head out the window, and I
see our Perryn arguing with this blond lass. Seems like she was
leaving him, and he was yelling at her not to go.”

Rhodry handed over the first silver.

“I’m going to find no one, she says,” the peddler went on.
“Seemed like a cursed strange thing to say, so it’s stuck in my
mind, like.”

“So it would. Did she say where ‘nev yn’ was?”

“Not truly. But she did say to his lordship that if he tried to follow
her to Cerrmor, she’d take his balls off with her silver dagger.”

With a laugh, Rhodry handed him the second coin, then dug out a
third for good measure.

“My thanks, peddler, and it gladdens my wretched heart that you
lost that hour’s sleep.”

When Rhodry left the stable, Merryc laughed quietly under his
breath. It was a good jest, to make the silver dagger pay for the
false rumors that were going to mean his doom.

Jill woke suddenly at the sound of horses coming. She sat up
wondering why she hadn’t tried to escape before Perryn returned.
Now it was too late. She stood up, very slowly, because the ground
seemed unsteady under her feet. As she walked back to camp, the
grass swelled and billowed, as if she trod on a huge feather
mattress.

“Jill! Fear not! Rescue is at hand, though truly, as a shining avenger
one could want better than I.”

Startled, she spun around and stared openmouthed at the man
dismounting from his horse on the other side of the clearing. For a
moment she thought he was Rhodry, but the voice and the pale
hair were all wrong. Then she remembered him.

“Salamander! Oh ye gods!”

Suddenly she was weeping, doubling over as she sobbed,
throwing herself from side to side until he ran over and grabbed
her tight.

“Whist, whist, little one. All’s well, more or less, anyway. You’ve
been ensorceled, but it’s over now.”

The tears stopped, and she looked up at him.

“It was true, then? He has the dweomer?”

“I’m not so sure of that, but you were ensorceled well and truly.
Where is he?”

“Off stealing a horse from someone.”

“And the horse dung, too, no doubt. This lad sounds stranger and
stranger.”

“You might well say that and twice. Please, we’ve got to get away
before he gets back.”

“Not that, because I’ve got a thing or two to say to him.”

“But he’s dweomer.”

Salamander smiled lazily.

“It is time for all truths to be known. So am I.”

She pulled away, staring at him.

“How else did I know you’d been ensorceled, and how else would I
have found you? Now come along. Let’s get your gear on your
horse. I want to curse this fellow to the three hells, and then we’ve
got to be on our way. Rhodry’s got a long head start on us.”

At the mention of Rhodry’s name, she began to sob again.
Salamander pulled her close into his arms.

“Na, na, na, little one. Remember you’re a warrior’s daughter.
There’ll be time enough for tears later, when we’re well away from
here. We’ll find your Rhodry for you.”

“Oh ye gods, I don’t know if your brother will even want me back.”

“My . . . here! How did you find out?”

The urgency in his voice stopped her tears.

“I . . . well, I had a true dream. I saw your father.”

“Gods! If you have that kind of power, and this fellow still . . . well,
he may be a bit more powerful than I thought, but cursed if I’ll run
until I get a look at him. Let me saddle your horse for you, and you
tell me the tale.”

As best she could, Jill told him about Perryn and the events of the
last few days, but it was difficult for her to find words to put things
in any sort of order, or indeed to remember exactly how long she’d
been traveling with Perryn. At times it seemed a few years, at
others months. She was shocked when Salamander told her that it
had been at most a fortnight. While he listened, he grew angry, until
finally he cut short one last stumbling sentence with a wave of his
hand.

“I’ve heard enough, little one. This ugly bastard should be flogged
and hanged, if you ask me. I wonder if I can get him to a lord’s
justice.”

“Not here. All the lords are his kin.”

“And who will believe me when I come to them talking of dweomer,
besides? Well, there’s other kinds of justice in the kingdom.”

When she looked at him, she saw his anger like ghostly flames
burning over his face and looked away again. Yet the vision jogged
her memory.

“Was it you I saw a while back? I saw an elf all covered with silver
fire in the sky.”

“It was, true enough. But you were seeing only a well . . . call it an
image of me.”

She nodded, the thought and the memory slipping away again. She
wondered why he was so angry with Perryn, but it seemed at
somehow she should know the answer.

Salamander was just finishing tying her bedroll behind the saddle
when he paused, cocking his head to listen. It was several minutes
before she heard the sound of hoofbeats, three horses coming
fast. Ducking and dodging among the trees, Perryn rode up with
two chestnut colts following him along. As Salamander walked to
meet him, Perryn dismounted and ran the last few yards.

“Who are you?” Perryn shouted. “Jill, what are you doing?”

Although she was shaking too hard to speak, her saddled and
loaded horse was an obvious answer. When Perryn started to run
to her, Salamander stepped in between. Perryn swung at him flat-
handed. All at once Wildfolk swarmed into existence and mobbed
him, a good hundred of them biting pinching kicking punching as
they fell upon him like dogs on a tossed bone. Perryn screamed
and yelped, hitting blindly at an enemy he couldn’t see, and finally
went down under them, a tossing, heaving mound.

“Enough!” Salamander yelled.

The Wildfolk disappeared, leaving Perryn trembling and
whimpering on the ground.

“That’s better, dog,” Salamander snarled. “A fine scion of the Wolf
clan are you, a horse thief and a wife stealer both!”

He flung up one hand and chanted a long string of Elvish words
under his breath. Suddenly Jill saw a green-and-gray glow
streaming around Perryn—no, it was emanating from him in a cloud
of light. From it stretched long smoky tendrils that tangled her
round. She suddenly realized that she too stood in a similar cloud,
but that hers was pale gold.

“Do you see that, Lord Perryn? Do you see what you’ve been
doing?”

Perryn looked from her to himself and back to Salamander, then
suddenly moaned and hid his eyes with his hands. The gerthddyn
said a few more Elvish words, then snapped his fingers. A golden
sword made of what seemed to be solid light appeared in his
hand. He swept it back and forth, slashing at every tendril that
bound her to Perryn. The light lines snapped like cut tether ropes
and slapped back to him. Perryn screamed, but she felt her mind
and her will come back to her, and with them a revulsion, a burning
hatred for this man who’d broken her like a wild horse. When
Salamander chanted again, the glowing clouds and the sword
vanished. Perryn raised his head.

“Don’t look at me that way, my love,” he whispered. “Oh, by Kerun
himself, you’re not going to leave me, are you?”

“Of course I am, you bastard! I never want to see you again in my
god-cursed life.”

“Jill, Jill, I beg you don’t go! I love you!”

“Love?” She felt her natred burning in her mouth. “I spit on your
idea of love!”

When Perryn began to weep, the sound was beautiful to her.
Salamander looked as if he was thinking of kicking him, then
restrained himself.

“Listen, you!” he snarled. “Out of sheer pity I’ll tell you one thing:
you’ve got to stop stealing women and horses this way, or it’ll kill
you. Do you hear me?”

Slowly Perryn got to his feet to face the gerthddyn, and his face
worked as if he was desperately trying to summon some dignity.

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispered. “But I don’t have to stay
here and have you pour vinegar in my wounds. I can’t stop you
from taking Jill away, so go. You hear me! Get out!” His voice rose
to a shriek. “Go away! Both of you!”

Then he fell sobbing to his knees again.

“Very well.” Salamander turned to Jill. “Let us leave this
whimpering dolt to whatever justice the gods have in store for him.”

“Gladly.”

In a swirl of joyous Wildfolk, they mounted their horses. A big black
gnome with purple splotches threw the lead rope of the pack horse
up to Salamander, then disappeared as they rode away. Jill
glanced back once to see Perryn stretched out on the grass, still
weeping in a sea of swelling emerald, with his gray nuzzling his
shoulder in concern. Nothing had ever pleased her as much as his
pain.

For about a mile they rode in silence, until they came free of the
trees to one of the muddy tracks that passed for a Cerrgonney
road. There Salamander paused his horse, waved at her to do the
same, and turned in his saddle to look her over in sincere concern.
She could only stare blankly back at him.

“How do you feel, Jill?”

“Exhausted.”

“No doubt, but you’ll get your strength back in a bit.”

“Good. Will the world ever hold still again?”

“What? What’s it doing at the moment?”

“Well, everything’s all . . . not hazy, exactly, but nothing will hold still,
and these colors . . . everything’s so bright and glowy.” She
hesitated, struggling with the unfamiliar task of forming sentences.
“Nothing has edges, you see. It all sparkles and runs together. And
there’s no Time anymore. Wait, that’s not right. But it is.”

“Oh ye gods! What did that lout do to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“My apologies, just a rhetorical question. Jill, this is blasted
serious.”

“I could figure that out myself, my thanks. Will I ever see the world
like it really is again?”

“You mean, will you ever see it as you used to, because as for the
world as it really is, my turtledove, that’s what you’re seeing right
now. Before, you’ve only seen the dull, dead, dark, and deceiving
surface, as most people do.”

“But here! These colors, and the way everything moves—”

“Are real enough. But, truly, most inconvenient withal. The gods are
kind, turtledove. They let most men see only what they need to
see, and hide the beauty away. If they didn’t, we’d all starve,
because even a simple act like picking an apple from a tree would
be a momentous and ominous event.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“No need for you to believe it, actually. Belief has no bearing
whatsoever on your current and most dire condition. Belief is an
illusion, and truly, all that men see is illusion as well, because the
universe is naught but a rushy net of pure power.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is, but this is no time for us to argue recondite matters like a pair
of Bardek sages. That little round-ear bastard has hurt you worse
than I feared, Jill.” He paused for a long, troubled silence. “I’m not
truly sure what to do about this. Fortunately, our esteemed Nevyn
will.”

“Salamander, you’re babbling! What did Perryn do to me?”

“Well, look, you saw those lines of light, didn’t you? What he was
doing was pouring life force into you, more than you could possibly
use or handle. Look, every time you two lay down together, he
gave off a tremendous amount of life force. It’s not solid like water
but it’s more solid than a thought, and it can be transferred back
and forth. Normally, whenever a man and woman are together, they
each give some out and get some back, all in balance. Now, I
doubt me if this truly makes sense to you.”

“Oh, but it does.” Her disarranged mind was casting up images, of
Sarcyn and Alastyr, of the dark dweomer that had touched and
tainted her life the summer before. For a moment she nearly
vomited. When she spoke again, it was only in a whisper. “Go on. I
have to know.”

“Well, then, somewhat’s wrong with Perryn. He was pouring the
force out like mead at a lord’s feast, more than you could ever
possibly replace in the ordinary course of things. And all that extra
power was running free in your mind, free to be used in any way
you wished, but since, alas, you had no idea of what to wish for, or
indeed that it was even there, then it took the first channel it found
to run in, like water again, if we may expand and polish our image
my turtledove, that escapes from a river only to follow a ditch. You
can’t lie and say you’ve no dweomer talent, you know.”

“I don’t care! I never wanted to have anything of the sort.”

“Oh, of course not, you lackwit! That’s not what I’m saying. Listen,
these are dark and dangerous matters indeed, and the source of
many a strange thing. No one who studies the dweomer of Light
would fool with them carelessly, the way Perryn seems to have
done.”

“Are you telling me he follows the dark path?”

“I’m not, because that poor, weak, bumbling idiot obviously could
do naught of the sort. I know not what Lord Perryn may be, my little
robin, but I do know that we’ve got to get you far, far away from
him. Let’s ride. We’ll reach some safe spot, and then I’ll see what
Nevyn thinks of all this.”

After Jill rode away, Perryn had just enough strength to unsaddle
his horse and send him out to graze. He lay down on his blankets
and fell asleep, waking for a few moments at sunset, then sleeping
the night away. When he woke in the morning, he rolled over,
automatically reaching for Jill, and wept when he remembered that
she was gone.

“How could you leave me? I loved you so much.”

He forced himself to stop crying, then sat up and looked around
the camp. In spite of his long sleep, he was still tired, his body
aching as if he’d been in a fight. When he remembered the man
who’d taken her away, he turned cold all over. Dweomer. What else
would have shown him that peculiar vision of clouds of light and
golden swords? See what you’ve been doing, Lord Perryn. But
he’d done nothing at all, only loved her. What did ropes of mystic
light have to do with love? And she’d said that she hated him. He
shook his head, refusing to cry again.

At last he forced himself up and began packing his gear. He’d
already placed himself in danger by staying so long; the lord who
once had owned these colts might come looking for them. As he
worked, he wondered which way to ride. He couldn’t go back to
Nedd, not for a long time, not with Benoic’s wrath waiting for him.
You’re twice a dolt, he told himself, first taking another man’s
woman—and then losing her. Benoic would heap scorn on him for
years over this, he knew. After the splendor of having had
someone to love, of having had someone who had loved him—he
refused to believe that Jill had never loved him—his life stretched
ahead like a bleak, foggy road. It seemed to take him forever to
leave the spot. He would just get some small task done, like rolling
up his blankets, when something would make him think of Jill, and
he would weep again. The dapple gray stayed close to him,
nuzzling his shoulder or nudging him in the back as if to say that he
should cheer up.

“At least you love me, don’t you?” Perryn whispered. “But a horse
is a wretchedly easy thing to please.”

Finally he was ready to set out, with his gray saddled and his pack
horse and the two new colts on lead ropes. He mounted, then
merely sat in the saddle for a long time and stared at the place that
would hold his last memories of Jill. Where to go next? The
question seemed insuperable. At last, when the gray was
beginning to dance in irritable restlessness under him, he turned
back northwest. Not far away was the town of Leryn, where he
knew a dishonest trader who would take the colts and ask no
questions. All that day he rode slowly, and the tears came and went
of their own accord.

Rhodry might have taken a barge passage immediately if it hadn’t
been for the gray gnome, who came to him early on the same
morning that Salamander caught up with Jill. The little creature was
ecstatic, dancing around and grinning so broadly that it exposed all
its long pointed teeth.

“Well, little brother, I take it you know that Jill’s left Perryn.”

The gnome nodded, then pointed to the southeast.

“Is that where Jill is?”

The gnome shook its head no, then pantomimed Perryn’s
graceless walk.

“Oho! How far away is our dear Lord Perryn?”

The gnome shrugged and waved its hands as if to say not very far
at all. Rhodry debated for a long while. On the one hand, he wanted
to be after Jill; on the other, his desire for revenge was like a lust.
Finally the vengeance won.

“Well and good, little brother. I’ll saddle up my horse, and you lead
me to him.”

The gnome grinned and jigged, pointing always off to the south
and east.

It was late in the afternoon when Rhodry came to a scrappy little
village, a huddle of houses at the top of a hill without even a proper
wall around it. Although there was no tavern, the blacksmith’s wife
kept a few barrels of ale in her kitchen for thirsty travelers, but she
refused to have a silver dagger in her house. She did, however, let
him buy a tankard and drink it out in the muddy yard, where
chickens scratched near a small sty that held a pair of half-grown
pigs. The woman, a stout sort with wispy gray hair, set her hands
on her hips and glared at him the whole time as if she thought he
would steal the tankard. When he was done, Rhodry handed it
back with an exaggerated bow.

“My thanks, fair lady. I don’t suppose you get many travelers
through here.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m looking for a friend of mine, that’s all, a tall, skinny fellow with
red hair and—”

“You’d best go over to the baker’s then. A fellow like that bought a
tankard from me not half an hour ago, and he said he needed to
buy bread.”

“Oh, indeed? He didn’t have a lass with him, did he?”

“He didn’t, just a couple of extra horses. Too many horses, if you
ask me. Didn’t like the look of him, I didn’t.”

Following her directions, Rhodry hurried along the twisting street.
When he reached the house with the big beehive clay ovens in the
front yard he saw Perryn’s dapple gray, his pack horse, and a pair
of colts tied up nearby. He laughed aloud, just a quick snatch of a
berserker’s chuckle, and thanked Great Bel in his heart. As he tied
up his horse, he could see Perryn through the open door, handing
over some coppers to a fellow in a cloth apron. Rhodry strode in.
His hands full of loaves, Perryn turned and yelped, a satisfying gulp
of pure terror.

“You bastard,” Rhodry snarled. “Where’s my wife?”

“Oh, er, ah, well, I don’t know.”

His face pale, the baker began edging for the door. Rhodry
ignored him and went for Perryn. He grabbed him by the shirt and
slammed him against the stone wall so hard that Perryn dropped
the bread. Rhodry kicked it out of the way and slammed him again.

“Where’s Jill?”

“I don’t know.” Perryn was gasping for breath. “She left me. I swear
it. She left me on the road.”

“I know that, dolt! Where?”

When Perryn smirked at him, Rhodry hit him in the stomach He
doubled over, choking, but Rhodry straightened him up and hit him
again.

“Where did she leave you?”

Half blind from tears in his eyes, Perryn raised his head. Rhodry
slapped him across the face.

“I know you’re going to kill me,” Perryn gasped. “Not going to tell
you one rotten thing.”

Rhodry saw no reason to admit that he’d sworn a vow to leave him
alive. He grabbed him by the shoulders, hauled him forward, and
slammed into the stone again.

“Where is she? If you tell me, you live.”

“I don’t know, by the gods!”

Rhodry was about to hit him in the stomach a second time when he
heard noises behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw
the white-faced baker, flanked by the blacksmith carrying an iron
bar and two other men with threshing flails at the ready.

“Now what’s all this, silver dagger? You can’t ride in and just
murder someone.”

“I’m not going to murder anyone. This whoreson piss-pot little
bastard stole my wife away, and now he won’t tell me where she
is.”

The four villagers considered, glancing at one another and at the
sword at Rhodry’s side. Even though the four of them would have
had more than a good chance against one man, no matter how
skilled with a sword, it seemed they were the prudent sort.

“Ah well,” the blacksmith said. “Then it’s no affair of ours, if he’s
been meddling with your woman.”

“Just get him out of my house,” the baker moaned.

“Gladly. Rats don’t belong in a granary.”

Rhodry twisted Perryn’s right arm behind his back and shoved him
out of the bakery. When his victim struggled, Rhodry swung him
sideways and knocked him against the wall of the next house so
hard that he screamed.

“Where’s Jill?”

“I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

Rhodry hit him in the stomach so hard he vomited, falling to his
knees. When he was done, Rhodry hauled him up, twisted his arm
again, and then marched him round the bakery to a big stone shed.
He threw him face forward against the wall, peeled him off and
turned him round, then shoved him back again. By then Perryn
could barely stand up.

“For the last time, where is she?”

Gasping, Perryn wiped feebly at the blood pouring from his nose
and from a cut over his eye. Rhodry unbuckled his sword belt and
let it drop.

“Come on, coward! Draw on me, if you dare.”

Perryn merely gasped and sniveled. Rhodry’s stomach tightened
in sheer contempt.

“You base-born little half-gelded swine!”

Rhodry jumped him, grabbed him with one hand, and began hitting
him as hard as he could with the other. The pleasure of beating
Perryn filled his entire mind, just as when a sheet of flame races
through the forest and sweeps everything before it. Suddenly he
remembered the holy vow he’d sworn to Benoic. He let Perryn go
and leaned him back against the wall. Fortunately, the lord was still
breathing. He looked at Rhodry for a moment with glazed eyes,
one of which was already swelling shut, tried to speak, gasped,
then crumpled, sliding slowly down the wall to the ground. Rhodry
gave him one last kick and turned to find the four villagers, standing
as solemnly as judges, and three small boys, wide-eyed with
excitement. Nearby was the gray gnome, clapping its hands and
grinning while it did a little victory dance. Rhodry retrieved his
sword belt and buckled it on while he caught his breath.

“There. I didn’t murder him, did I now?”

They all shook their heads in agreement.

“I thought silver daggers didn’t have wives,” said one of the boys.

“I did. Let me tell you somewhat. If ever you find another silver
dagger with a wife, then you keep your blasted little paws off her.”

The lads looked at Perryn, then nodded again. When Rhodry
walked toward them, they all parted to give him plenty of room and
fell in behind him like an honor guard while he fetched his horse.
He mounted and rode out, heading northwest to return to the river.
His hands were bloody, bruised, and aching, but he’d never
enjoyed a pain more in his life. As soon as he was out of sight of
the village, the gnome appeared on his saddle peak.

“That was a splendid bit of fun, wasn’t it, little brother?”

With an evil grin the gnome nodded a yes.

“Now, am I going the right way? Is Jill heading for the river?”

Again, it nodded yes.

“Is she going to Cerrmor?”

It waggled its hands and shrugged its shoulders to show that it
didn’t truly know. It occurred to Rhodry that place names would
mean nothing at all to the Wildfolk.

“Well, if she’s on the river, I’ll catch her up, sure enough. My
thanks, little brother. You’d best get back to Jill and keep an eye on
her.”

Out of compassion on the one hand and a sense of having seen
justice done on the other, the blacksmith and the baker picked
Perryn up and carried him into the baker’s cow shed, where they
laid him down on a heap of straw. Perryn could barely see them out
of his swollen eyes. His chest ached so badly that he was sure
Rhodry had broken a couple of his ribs and his lower lip was split
and bleeding. The baker’s wife brought out a bowl of water, gave
him a drink, then washed his face for him.

“Didn’t like the look of that silver dagger, I didn’t. Here, did you
really take his wife?”

Perryn mumbled out a sound, that passed for “I did.”

“Huh. I don’t see why any lass would take you over him, but then,
lasses is flighty sometimes. Ah well, you can stay here for a day or
two, lad, if you’ll give me a couple of coppers for horse feed.”

Perryn nodded a yes, then fainted.

Irritated to the point of rage, Nevyn sat in his chamber and glared at
Salamander’s image as it danced over the glowing coals in the
charcoal brazier. The gerthddyn seemed honestly bewildered.

“But I couldn’t leave Jill with that lout—”

“Of course not, you, dolt! That isn’t the point. The point is this
Perryn himself. You’ve left behind a gravely ill man—”

“Who repeatedly raped my brother’s woman.”

“I know that, and I’m furious about it, but what I’m trying to tell you is
that he’s deathly ill.”

“If he dies, what loss will it be?”

“Hold your tongue, you chattering elf!”

Salamander’s image shrank back and turned pale. Nevyn took a
breath and controlled himself.

“Now listen, Ebañy. If Perryn continues on this way, he’s going to
pour out his life force until there’s precious little left. Then he’ll get
some illness—most likely a consumption of the lungs—and die,
just as you’ve guessed. But in the meantime, he’ll also be harming
other women because he can’t help himself. He’s like a man with a
plague, spreading foul humors and contagion over the countryside
even though he doesn’t wish another soul harm. Now do you see?”

“I do at that, and my apologies.” Salamander did look sincerely
chastened. “But what could I have done? Ensorceled him? Roped
him like one of his horses and dragged him along with us? Jill can’t
bear the sight of him, and in her state—”

“Well, true enough. Let me think . . . the nearest dweomerworker is
Liddyn of Cantrae. He can possibly find our Perryn and corral him.
Truly, your first concern has to be Jill. Form a link with her aura and
then—slowly, mind you—draw off some of that excess magnetism.
The process should take some days, because you’ll have to
absorb it yourself. Or, here, expend it. Do some of your wretched
little tricks with it. It might amuse her.”

“I doubt me if any show of dweomer will do more than terrify her
now.”

“Maybe so. Ah ye gods! What a nasty mess you’ve dropped in our
laps!”

“So they have. Here, one more strange thing about Perryn. When I
first saw him, I opened up my sight and looked into his soul. I was
thinking perhaps that he was some man linked to Jill by his Wyrd or
suchlike.”

“Was he?”

“I couldn’t tell you that. I couldn’t read his soul.” All at once
Salamander looked rueful. “Truly, I must have let my rage, wrath,
and righteousness override my reason. I kept seeing him as some
of half-human monster, not as a man at all.”

“Valandario’s been telling you and I have been telling you that
dweomer demands that a man keep his feelings under control. Do
see now what we mean? Ye gods!”

“You have my true and humble apologies, O master. Here, since
I’ve seen Perryn, I can scry him out whenever you or Liddyn need
my aid.”

“And doubtless we will. He’s got to be caught.”

“True enough. I wasn’t thinking. It was just seeing our Jill so . . .
well, so broken and so shamed. It ached my heart.”

“It aches mine, too.” Nevyn realized then that part of his anger at
Salamander was only a spillover from his rage at what had
happened. “I only wish I could come join you. If you’re riding south,
maybe I will. It depends on how things go here.”

“Where are you, by the by?”

Nevyn managed a laugh.

“My turn for the apologies. I’m in the gwerbret’s dun in Aberwyn.”

“Ye gods! I’m surprised Rhys will let you cross his threshold.”

“Oh, he bears me no particular ill will. Lady Lovyan asked me to
come with her and pretend to be a legal councillor. She’s going to
try one last time to get Rhys to recall Rhodry.”

“No doubt the hells will melt first.”

“No doubt. On the other hand, Rhys loves Aberwyn, and he might
do what’s best for her in the end.”

When Salamander looked profoundly skeptical, Nevyn sighed in
agreement. Being stubborn was a crucial part of a noble-born
man’s honor, and Rhys, like all Maelwaedds, would never betray
his.

After finishing his talk with Salamander, Nevyn went to the open
window and leaned on the sill to look out. From his chamber high
up in the broch, he could see the gardens, a long reach of lawn lit
with a hundred tiny oil lamps, where the ladies of the court were
having an evening entertainment. Minstrels played, and the noble-
born danced among the flickering lights. He could hear them
laughing, half out of breath, as they circled round, stamping and
slapping their feet in time to the harps and wooden flutes. Ah, my
poor Jill, he thought, will you ever be as happy as they again?

His anger came close to choking him, a cold fury with Perryn, with
Rhys, stubborn men who insisted on having what they wanted no
matter what the cost to anyone else. Rhys was the worse, he
decided, because his refusal to recall his brother could plunge
Eldidd into open war. And then all those noble lords below would
ride in a circling dance of death, this entertainment long forgotten.
He pulled the shutters closed so hard that they banged like thunder
in the chamber and turned away to pace back and forth. Finally he
shook the mood away and turned to the brazier again. When he
thought of Rhodry the image appeared in an instant. He was
standing, his back to the wall, in a crowded tavern and watching a
dice game while he sipped from a tankard. At times, when Rhodry
was in a particular melancholy mood, Nevyn could reach his mind
and send him thoughts, but tonight he was preoccupied and oddly
enough, not at all unhappy. At times he smiled to himself as if
remembering a triumph. Most odd, Nevyn thought. Why isn’t he
brooding over Jill?

When someone knocked on his door, he canceled the vision. Lady
Lovyan came in, her plaid cloak caught at the shoulder with a ring
brooch set with rubies winking in the candlelight.

“Have you had enough of the dancing, my lady?”

“More than enough, but I came to see you for another reason. A
speeded courier just rode in from Dun Deverry.” She handed him a
piece of parchment, tightly rolled from its long sojourn inside a
message tube. “This is supposedly for my eyes alone, but I doubt
if Blaen would mind you reading it.”

After the long ritual salutations, the letter itself was brief: “I am in
Dun Deverry in attendance upon the king. He tells me only that he’s
most interested in talking with a certain silver dagger known to you.
Would the dragon roar if our liege usurped one of his privileges?
By the by, Lord Talidd seems to have found a friend in Savyl of
Camynwaen. Blaen, Gwerbret Cwm Pecl.”

“Humph,” Nevyn snorted. “Blaen isn’t much of a man at
subterfuge.”

“Rhys would have understood that message in an instant if he’d
read it.” Lovyan took the letter back and dropped it into the glowing
charcoal. The smell of burning leather drifted into the room, and
Nevyn hurried to open the shutters. “The news about Savyl of
Camynwaen’s troubling. I do not like the idea of Talidd’s finding
another gwerbret to plead his case with our liege.”

“No more do I. Ye gods, this is all getting vexed!”

“Do you think Rhys would rebel if the king overrode his decree of
exile?”

“Not on his own, but he might be persuaded by men who think they
have a chance at the rhan if he died childless.”

“Just so. They’d try to push him into it, anyway. On the other hand,
if the king does intervene, then Rhys could stop my nagging
tongue without losing any face.”

“True enough. He could bluster about the decree all he wanted in
front of the other lords but accept it privately.”

“So I hope. Well, we don’t even know if the king truly plans to recall
Rhodry.” She looked at the twisted sheet of parchment ash in the
brazier, then picked up the poker and knocked it into dust. “Let us
hope that Blaen sends us more news soon.”

Rhodry had no trouble buying passage on a barge that was making
the run down to Lughcarn. His horse shared the stern with the
barge mules that would pull the boat upriver again; he had a place
to sleep in the bow with the four crewmen, who spoke to him as
little as possible. The rest of the barge’s hundred feet were laden
with rough-shaped iron ingots from the smelters of Ladotyn up in
the high mountains. Although the barge rode low in the water, the
river current was smooth and steady, and for three days they
glided south, while Rhodry amused himself by watching the
countryside go by. Once the hills were behind them, the grassy
meadows and rich grain fields of Gwaentaer province spread out,
green and gold in the late summer sun, flat and seemingly endless.

On the fourth day they crossed the border into Deverry proper,
though Rhodry didn’t see much change in the countryside to mark
it, Toward noon, the bargemaster told him that they’d make
Lughcarn that night.

“It’s the end of our run, silver dagger, but I’ll wager you can find
another barge going down into Dun Deverry.”

“Splendid. This is a cursed sight faster than riding, and I’ve got to
reach Cerrmor as soon as ever I can.

The bargemaster scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“Don’t know much about the river traffic south, out of the king’s city,
but I’ll wager there’s some.” He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Well, whether there is or not, you’ll be only about a week’s ride
from Cerrmor then.”

By late afternoon, Rhodry saw the first sign that they were coming
close to the city. At first he thought he was seeing clouds on the
southern horizon, but the steersman enlightened him. A dark pall of
smoke hung in the air, smoke from the charcoal ovens, smoke
from the charcoal itself as it fed the forges to turn rough iron into
Lughcarn steel. By the time they turned into the docks just outside
the walled city, his linen shirt was flecked with soot. The docks
themselves and the warehouses just beyond were grimy gray. As
he rode through the gate in the soot-blackened city walls, Rhodry
was thinking that he’d be very glad to leave Lughcarn behind.

Yet it was a rich city under the soot. As he searched for a tavern
poor enough to take in a silver dagger, Rhodry passed fine
houses, some of them as tall as a poor lord’s broch, with carved
plaques over the doors proclaiming the name of one great
merchant clan or another. There were temples all over the city, too,
some to obscure gods usually relegated to a tiny shrine in the
corner of a temple of Bel, some, like the great temple of Bel itself,
as large as duns, with gardens and outbuildings of their own. Until
he finally found the poor section of town, down by the river on the
southern bank, he saw very few beggars, and even among the
wooden huts of the longshoremen and charcoal burners he saw
almost no one in rags and not a child who looked in danger of
starving.

He found a shabby tavern whose owner agreed to let him sleep in
the hayloft of the stable out back for a couple of coppers. After he
stabled his horse, he went back in and got the best dinner the
place offered—mutton stew lensed with grease and served with
stale bread to sop up the gravy. He took it to a table where he
could keep his back to the wall and looked over the other patrons
while he ate. Most of them looked like honest workingmen,
gathered there to have a tankard while they chewed over the local
gossip, but one of them might have been a traveler like himself, a
tall fellow with straight dark hair and skin colored like a walnut shell
that bespoke some Bardek blood in his veins. Once or twice,
Rhodry caught the fellow looking at him curiously, and when he’d
finished eating, the fellow strolled over to him with a tankard in his
hand.

“Have you come from the north, silver dagger?”

“I have at that. Why?”

“That’s the way I’m heading. I was wondering what the roads are
like up in Gwaentaer.”

Now, that I can’t tell you, because I came down on a barge.”

“A good way to travel when you’re coming downriver, but not so
good going up. Well, my thanks, anyway.” Yet he lingered for a
moment, as if wondering about something, then finally sat down.
“You know, a silver dagger did me a favor once, a while back, and I
wouldn’t mind returning it to a fellow member of his band.” He
dropped his voice to a murmur. “You look like you hail from
Eldidd.”

“I do.”

“You wouldn’t be Rhodry of Aberwyn, would you?”

“I am. Here, where did you hear my name?”

“Oh, it’s all over the south. That’s what I mean about returning a
favor. Let me give you a tip, like. It seems that every misbegotten
gwerbret has riders out looking for you. I’d head west if I were
you.”

“What? By the black ass of the Lord of Hell, what are they looking
for me for?”

The fellow leaned closer.

“There’s been a charge laid against you by a Tieryn Aegwyc up in
Cerrgonney. He claims you took his brother’s head in battle.”

Instantly, Rhodry understood—or thought he did. No doubt
Graemyn had put the blame on him in order to reach a settlement
in the peace treaty. After all, who would believe a silver dagger’s
word against that of a lord?

“Ye gods! I did no such thing!”

“It’s of no matter to me. But like I say, you’d best be careful which
way you ride.”

“You have my thanks from the bottom of my heart.”

All that evening, Rhodry kept one eye on the tavern door. If that
charge stood up in a gwerbretal court, he would be beheaded as
the holy laws demanded. Fortunately, his years on the long road
had taught him many a thing about avoiding trouble. He could no
longer ride the barges south, not when they could be called to the
bank at any point by the king’s guard and searched. He would have
to slip south on back roads and, of course, lie about his name.
Cerrmor itself was big enough so that he’d be able to stay unknown
for at least a day or two. Once he found Jill, he’d have a witness on
his side. Besides, he reminded himself, Nevyn’s there too. Even a
gwerbret would listen when the old man spoke.

In the morning, he rode out the east gate to plant a false trail. Much
later, when it was too late, he realized that Tieryn Benoic would
never have been party to such a falsehood.

“Someone worked you over good and proper, lad,” said Gwel the
leech. “Who was it?”

“Oh, er, ah, well,” Perryn mumbled. “A silver dagger.”

“Indeed? Well, it’s a foolish man who earns a silver dagger’s
wrath.”

“I . . . er . . . know that now.”

In the polished mirror hanging on the wall of the leech’s shop,
Perryn could see his face, still blue, green, and swollen. “You
should have had this broken tooth out long before this,” Gwel said.

“True-spoken, but I couldn’t ride until a couple of days ago. He
broke some of my ribs, too.”

“I see. Well, you give silver daggers a wide berth after this.”

“You have my sworn word on that.”

Having the tooth pulled was more painful than having it broken,
since it took much longer, and the only painkilller the leech could
offer him was a goblet of strong mead. It was some hours before
Perryn could leave the leech’s shop and stagger back to his inn on
the outskirts of Leryn. He flopped down on the bed in his chamber
and stared miserably at the ceiling while his mind circled endlessly
round and round like a donkey tied to a mill wheel: what was he
going to do? The thought of returning to Cerrgonney to face his
uncle’s scorn made him feel physically sick to his stomach. And
there was Jill. It seemed as the days went by that he loved her
more than ever, that he’d never appreciated what he had until he’d
lost it. Thinking that most men were no different about those they
loved was no consolation. If only he could talk to her, beg her to let
him explain, tell her how much he loved her—he was sure she
would listen, if only he could get her alone, if only he could get her
away from that fellow with the terrifying stare and the even more
terrifying dweomer. If only. He didn’t even know which way they’d
gone.

Or could he find her? In his muddled state, half mad with pain and
the aftermath of the leech’s mead, he found himself thinking of her
as his heart’s true home, and with the thought came the pull, the
sharp tug at his mind that had always shown him the way to other
homes. Slowly, minding his aching jaw, he sat up on the bed and
went very still. Truly, he could feel it: south. She’d gone south. He
wept, but this time in rising hope, that he could track her down,
follow her along until he had a chance alone with her, and
somehow—oh, by great Kerun himself—steal her back again.

“Now this is passing strange,” Salamander announced. “Rhodry’s
still heading south, but by the ears of Epona’s steed, why is he
taking every rotten cow path and village lane instead of riding on
the king’s good roads?”

Jill turned to look at him. They were sitting on the bow of a river
barge, and Salamander was using the foaming, sun-flecked waters
as a focus for scrying. Since she still was seeing with power, the
water seemed like solid, carved silver, but she could remind
herself now that what she was seeing was only illusionary. She
refused to believe that she was seeing a hidden reality no matter
how often Salamander insisted on it.

“Does he seem to be looking for a hire?”

“Not in the least, and I’ve been watching him for two days now. It
seems that he knows where he’s going, but he’s being cursed
careful on the way.” With an irritable toss of his head, he looked
away from the river. “Well, I’ll spy out the esteemed brother again
later. How are you feeling this morn?”

“A lot better. At least things are holding still most of the time.”

“Good. Then my unpracticed cure is actually working.”

“You have my heartfelt thanks, truly.”

For a while she idly watched the southern horizon, where
Lughcarn’s smoke hung like a tiny cloud. She wished that she
could simply forget about Perryn, that Salamander had some
magic that would wipe her mind clean of his memory, but she knew
that the shame she felt would nag at her for years. She felt as
unclean as a priestess who’d broken her vows and was somehow
to blame, too, for her abduction. If she’d only told Rhodry, or called
to Nevyn earlier, or—the “If only’s” ran on and on.

“From the hiraedd in your eyes,” Salamander said abruptly, “I think
me you’re brooding again.”

“Oh, how can I not brood? It’s all well and good to chase after
Rhodry, but I imagine he’ll only curse me to my face when we find
him.”

“Why? You were no more at fault than one of the horses Perryn
stole.”

She merely shook, her head to keep tears away.

“Now, here, Jill, my turtledove. Your mind’s back, you can think
again. Let me tell you somewhat. I’ve been thinking about our
horse-stealing lord, and I’ve talked with Nevyn, too. There’s
somewhat cursed peculiar about that lad. He has what you might
call a wound of the soul, the way he pours out his life at will.”

“But I’m the one who fell right into his wretched arms. Ah, ye gods,
I never dreamt that I was as weak-willed as some slut of a tavern
lass.”

Salamander growled under his breath.

“Haven’t you listened to one blasted word I said? It’s not a weak
will. You were ensorceled, dweomer-bound and dweomer-
muddled. Once his life force swept over you, you had no will of
your own, only his will. All his lust ran to you like water through a
ditch.”

For a moment she wanted to vomit as she remembered how it felt
to have him smile at her in his particular way.

“Why do you call it a wound?” she said.

“Because it’s going to kill him, sooner or later.”

“Good. I only wish I could be there to watch.”

“And no one expects you to feel differently, my delicate little lass.
But can’t you see, Jill? You’re as blameless as if he’d tied you
down and raped you by force.”

“Ah ye gods, and that’s what I hate most. I felt so beastly
helpless!”

“You were helpless.”

“Oh, true enough. It’s a cursed hard thing to admit.”

“Boils need lancing, on the other hand.”

When she threw a fake punch his way, he smiled.

“Truly, you’re coming back to your old self. But don’t you see the
curious thing? Given that Perryn has no true dweomer, then where
by all the hells does this power come from? What gave him the
wound?”

“As much as I hate to talk about the worm-rotted bastard, I’ll admit
the question’s of some interest.”

“Of great interest, especially to Nevyn. Unfortunately, at the
moment, there is no answer.”

“Well, if anyone can find it, it’s Nevyn.”

“Precisely. Especially once he gets his hands on him.”

“Is he planning on hunting Perryn down?”

“Not truly. I’ve been waiting to tell you this until you were stronger,
but I think you can bear it now. Perryn’s been following us.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Salamander caught her
hand and held it between both of his.

“You’re in no danger now, none at all.”

“Not now, maybe, but what about when we’re out on the roads
again, following Rhodry?”

“By then Perryn will be on his way to Eldidd under armed guard.
Here, there’s a dweomerman at court named Lord Madoc. Have
Perryn arrested as soon as he enters the city, then send him to
Nevyn. From what you told me, that rambling scribe in our lordling’s
saddlebags is more than enough reason for the king’s wardens to
take him under arrest.”

“So we’re going to Dun Deverry?”

“We are. And we may not have to leave it, either. Do you know
Rhodry’s cousin Blaen of Cwm Peel?”

“I do.”

“The good gwerbret’s at court at the moment. Nevyn wants us to
speak with him. It seems that the king’s sent out the word that he
wants to see Rhodry. Apparently the various gwerbrets are
keeping watch for him, and when they find him, they’ll send him
straight to Dun Deverry.”

“The king? What—”

“I don’t know, but I think me we can guess. The king knows Rhys
won’t be getting any more heirs for Aberwyn.”

“Recall.”

“Just that. So soon enough, Jill, you’ll be having a splendid
wedding.”

“Oh, will I now? You sound like a village idiot. Think! They’re never
going to let the heir to the most important rhan in Eldidd marry a
silver dagger’s bastard. The best I could hope for is being his
wretched mistress again, living in his court and hating his wife.
Well, if he even wants me anymore. What do you think this is, one
of your tales?”

“I have the distinct and revolting feeling that I was thinking just that.
Jill, please, forgive me.”

She merely shrugged and watched the farmland gliding by. A herd
of white cattle with rusty-red ears were drinking from the river,
watched over by a lad and two dogs.

“Do you forgive me?” he said at last.

“I do, and my apologies, too. I’m all to pieces still.”

“So you are. After you’ve baited our trap for Perryn, you could just
ride away without seeing Rhodry, if you wanted.”

“Never. Maybe he’ll curse me to my face, but I want to tell him that I
always loved him.”

Salamander started to speak, but she covered her face with her
hands and wept.

The king’s palace in Dun Deverry was enormous, six broch towers
joined by a sprawling complex of half-brochs, surrounded by
outbuildings, and protected by a double ring of curtain walls. As an
honored guest, Blaen, Gwerbret Cwm Pecl, had a luxurious suite
high up in one of the outer towers, so that he had a good view of
the gardens that lay between the pair of walls. In his reception
hamber were four chairs with cushions of purple Bardek velvet well
as a table and a hearth of its own. Although Blaen cared little for
such luxuries as things in themselves, he appreciated them as
marks of the king’s favor. Besides, his wife, Canyffa, was
accompanying him on this trip, and he liked to see her surrounded
by comfort. A tall woman with dark hair and doelike brown eyes,
Canyffa was as calm as he was excitable. Although their marriage
had been of the usual arranged sort, Blaen privately considered
that he’d been exceptionally lucky in his wife. At moments, he
could even admit to her that he loved her.

This particular morning Canyffa had been called to wait upon the
queen in Her Majesty’s private chamber—a signal honor, but one
that had come her way before. Blaen perched on the window-sill in
their bedchamber and watched as she dressed with special care.
After one of her serving women laid out several dresses on the
bed, she sent the lass away and studied the choices, finally picking
a modest one of dove-gray Bardek silk, a color that showed off the
reds and whites of her husband’s clan’s plaid to advantage.

“I think Gwerbret Savyl’s wife is going to be attending the queen
this morning as well,” she remarked. “I assume that my lord would
like me to keep my ears open.”

“Your lord would like naught better, truly. What’s the wife like,
anyway?”

Canyffa considered before answering.

“A weasel, but a lovely one. I gather that they’re well suited.”

“In weaselhood, perhaps. No one would call Savyl lovely. Cursed if
I know why he’s sticking his oar in this particular stream!
Camynwaen’s a long way from Belglaedd. What use can Talidd
possibly be to him?”

“I believe they’ve got blood kin in common, but still, the point’s well
taken, my lord. I shall see if I can cultivate the lovely Lady Braeffa.”
She paused for a quick smile. “But if I’m going to sacrifice myself
this way, I shall expect a handsome present from our Rhodry when
he’s recalled.”

“Some of the finest Bardek silver, no doubt. I’ll make sure he
honors you properly. Well—if we can get him recalled, anyway.”

While Canyffa was off with the queen, Blaen had a guest of his
own, a powerful man who was worth another sort of cultivation.

He had his page fetch a silver flagon of mead and two glass
goblets, then sent the lad away. The gwerbret filled the glasses
with his own hands and gave one to his guest, who took an
appreciative sip. The recently ennobled Lord Madoc, third equerry
to the king, was a slender man of about forty, with neatly trimmed
blond hair barely touched with gray, and humorous blue eyes. He
was also, or so it was said. Nevyn’s nephew. Indeed? Blaen
thought to himself. But I’ll wager he’s another sorcerer, nephew or
not. Since he’d been a successful horse breeder in Cantrae
province before his recent court appointment, Madoc certainly did
his job well, and he had a plain yet decent sort of manners that
allowed him to fit into the court as smoothly as any minor lord—if
not more so. Yet, every now and then, there was something about
the way he looked or smiled that implied that the power and pomp
of the court failed to impress him.

“My thanks for the invitation to visit you. Your Grace,” Madoc said.
“To what do I owe the honor?”

“Simple hospitality, in a way. I know your uncle well.”

“Of course. I had a letter from him recently. He’s quite well.”

“Splendid. Is he still in Eldidd?”

“He is, Your Grace. Lovyan, Tieryn Dun Gwerbyn, has taken him
into her service.”

I’ll just wager, Blaen thought to himself. More like he’s taken her
into his, whether she knows it or not.

“That’s good news,” he said aloud. “Our Nevyn’s getting a bit old to
travel the roads with a mule.”

“His health’s a marvel, isn’t it, Your Grace? But then my mother is
still alive and sharp as a sword, and her past seventy.”

“Let’s hope the gods grant that you inherit their stamina, then.”
Blaen gave him a friendly grin. “Lovyan’s kin to me, of course, my
mother’s sister.”

“So I’d heard, Your Grace, but then, there’s been quite a bit of talk
of late of your cousin Rhodry.”

“No doubt. Trying to keep a secret at court is generally a waste of
time. The gossip started buzzing, I’ll wager, the moment our liege
summoned me here.”

“A bit sooner than that, truly.” Madoc shook his head in mock
sadness. ”The first rumors, Your Grace, were that the king might
summon you.”

“I’ll wager you, know, then, that our liege is looking for my
scapegrace cousin.”

“I do, at that, and the gossip is that the king means to override his
sentence of exile.”

“Well, I can’t really tell you if that’s true or not. I haven’t been worn
to any secrets, mind—our liege hasn’t told me, that’s all. I’ll guess
that he’s not sure yet.”

“Most like, Your Grace. Overriding a gwerbret’s decree is naught to
be done lightly.”

“Just so.” Blaen paused for a long swallow of mead. “But curse it
all, the king can’t do one thing or the other until Rhodry’s been
found.”

“Still no news, Your Grace?”

“Not a shred. By every god and his wife, what’s wrong with those
packs of idiots that the gwerbrets call riders? The kingdom’s big,
sure enough, but they should have found one silver dagger by
now.”

“So you’d think, Your Grace.” For the briefest of moments, Madoc
looked troubled. “I truly thought they would have tracked him down
quite quickly.”

“So did I.” Here was the crux, and Blaen paused briefly. “In fact, I
was wondering if perhaps you’d help with the hunt.”

“Me, Your Grace? Well, I’d certainly do anything that my duties
here allow, but I’m not sure what I could do.”

“I’m not truly sure either, but I suspect a man known as Nevyn’s
nephew might see things hidden from others.”

Madoc blinked twice, then smiled.

“Ah, Your Grace. You know about the old man’s dweomer, then.”

“I do. He went out of his way to let me know, last summer, it was.
He seemed to find it strangely easy to see things a long way
away.”

“So he can, Your Grace. Let me be blunt. If I could scry Rhodry
out, I would, but I’ve never seen him in the flesh, and so I can’t.”

Blaen had a gulp of mead to hide his surprise. He’d been
expecting a lot of fencing before Madoc admitted the truth, but
here the man had just spat it out.

“I see,” Blaen said at last. “Pity.”

“It is. I may be able to get you news some other way. His Grace is
right. Things are growing worrisome. Rhodry really should have
been found by now.”

“Just so. Do you know what my worst fear is? That some of the
men whose clans stand to inherit Aberwyn when Rhys dies may
have taken steps to have the legitimate heir removed.”

“Ye gods! Would they stoop so low?”

“Aberwyn is one of the richest rhans in the kingdom, and it’s going
to grow richer. Just a year ago the king gave the city a more liberal
charter. One of the terms was that Aberwyn would have a share in
the royal monopoly on trade with Bardek.”

Madoc nodded, a grim little smile twisting his mouth.

“His Grace’s point is well taken. Well and good, then. If His Grace
will excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course.”

Blaen was expecting Madoc to leave the chamber, but instead he
went to the window and looked up at the sky, where white clouds
billowed and tore on the edge of a summer storm. He stood there
while Blaen downed two more goblets of mead and wondered
what the man was doing; finally he turned back, looking troubled.

“Rhodry’s almost to Drauddbry, and he seems to be traveling
south. He’s bought himself a second horse to make speed. It
would appear that he’s heading for Cerrmor.”

“I wonder what they want in Cerrmor.”

“They, Your Grace?”

“Well, isn’t Jill with him?”

“My apologies, Your Grace. I forgot you wouldn’t know. He and Jill
were separated by an unfortunate turn of events. She’s following
along after him with a friend, a gerthddyn who gallantly offered to
escort her. The last I heard, they were coming to Dun Deverry to
beg your aid.”

“Which they’ll have, of course.” Blaen considered for a moment.
“Have you ever met my cousin or his woman?”

“I’ve not, Your Grace.”

“They match each other like a pair of fine boots. If Rhodry’s going
to inherit Aberwyn, I’d rather see Jill beside him than the noble-
born sheep his mother would pick for him.”

“But isn’t she common-born?”

“She is, but details like that have been arranged away before. I’ll
have to think on it.”

Several hours later, it occurred to Blaen that he implicitly believed
what Madoc had told him. I’ve seen dweomer before, he reminded
himself, but still he shuddered. What had Madoc been reading in
the cloudy sky?

Thanks to the rain, the bargemen had hung canvas across the bow
of the barge, an imperfect shelter but better than none at all. Jill
wrapped her cloak around her tightly and watched Salamander
staring at the foaming water rushing by. Every now and then his
mouth would frame a silent word or two. By then, her sight was
nearly back to normal. The water was merely water; Salamander no
longer changed color to reflect what he was feeling. There was
only a certain vividness to colors, a certain urgency to patterns of
line and shape, to remind her of the splendors she had seen when
she’d been bathed in forbidden power. With a grudging self-
mockery, she had to admit that in a way she was sorry to lose that
dangerous beauty. Finally Salamander turned to her to whisper.

“I’ve just been talking with Lord Madoc. He wanted to know where
I’d last scried Rhodry out so he could tell Blaen. Not that it’ll do
much good, truly. A speeded courier still couldn’t catch up with
him.”

“True enough, but the courier could tell the gwerbret in Cerrmor to
watch out for him.”

“If he stays in Cerrmor.”

Jill raised her hands in a gesture of frustration. She was wishing
that she hadn’t taught Rhodry the ways of the long road so well. For
days now he’d slipped through the net of riders looking for him like
a fox through a hedgerow.

“Well, we’ll be in Dun Deverry tomorrow,” Salamander said. “And
we can talk with Blaen directly.”

“Good. You know, in spite of everything, I’m really looking forward
to seeing the king’s city. I’ve wandered over this kingdom since I
was eight years old, but I’ve never been there. There aren’t any
hires for silver daggers in the king’s own lands.”

All at once the gray gnome popped into being, not a foot away
from her. When she held out her hands to it, it hesitated, screwing
up its face at her.

“Oh, here, little one! What have I done to make you so angry with
me?”

It held out for only a moment longer, then threw itself into her. She
hugged it tight.

“I’m so glad you’ve forgiven me. I’ve missed you.”

Smiling, it reached up to pat her cheek.

“We’ll be back with Rhodry soon, with any luck. Have you visited d
him? Is he well?”

It nodded yes to both questions, snuggling against her like a cat.

“I wish I knew where he was going.”

The gnome looked up and pointed at her.

“He’s following me?”

Again it nodded yes, but so indifferently that she wasn’t sure if it
had truly understood. Salamander had been watching all of this
closely.

“Interesting and twice interesting,” he pronounced. “But I wonder
what it means.”

Although the leech advised Perryn to stay in Leryn for at least five
days to recover from the beating, he left town as soon as he could
possibly ride. Once he’d tuned his mind to Jill, her presence ached
him like another wound, drawing him after her. Yet his longing was
tempered with fear, of the strange fellow with the moonbeam pale
hair who had taken her away. As he thought things over, he
wondered if he had somehow dreamt that terrifying scene where
he’d seen clouds of colored light and glowing swords. Every time
he tried to convince himself that he’d been dreaming, he came up
against the inescapable fact that Jill was gone. He simply refused
to admit that she ever would have left him of her own free will; there
had to be another man involved, and him a powerful one. Although
most people in the kingdom dismissed tales of dweomer, Perryn
had always instinctively believed they were true, that indeed there
was a thing called dweomer and that with it men could work
marvels. Now, to his very cold comfort, he’d been proven right. His
one consolation in all this was that if he didn’t have Jill, neither did
Rhodry.

Three days’ ride brought him to Gaddmyr, a large, prosperous
town behind a double ring of stone walls. Although he would have
preferred to avoid the town entirely, he was too low on provisions.
Normally he hated being in towns, packed in with a lot of smelly,
sweaty people, bound up in their petty human concerns like pigs in
a sty, but that night he found it a certain comfort to sit in the tavern
room of a shabby inn with human beings around him to distract him
from his constant, aching longing for Jill. Out in the forest, he would
have missed her constantly; there, he could drink down strong ale
and try to forget her. When the tavernman came by to ask him if
he’d be spending the night, on impulse he said that he would.

“But, er, ah, I don’t truly want to share a chamber with someone.
Could I, oh, ah, sleep out in the hayloft?”

“No reason why not. Plenty of room out there.”

Perryn got himself another tankard of ale and found a seat in an
out-of-the-way corner. Although he was planning on simply drinking
himself so blind that he’d be unable to think, the tavern lass hanged
his mind. She was a round-faced little thing, with dark hair and
knowing dark eyes, and a smile that promised a few nteresting
hours if not much more. Perryn decided that she was a much
better way to distract himself from thoughts of Jill than a hangover
would be. He chatted with her for a few minutes, asked her name,
which was Alaidda, and found, as he’d expected, that she was
utterly cold to him. When she turned to go, he gave her one of his
smiles. Although he’d never understood what he was doing the
smile worked as it always did. Alaidda stared at him, her lips half
parted, her eyes stunned as she lingered beside him. When he
smiled again, she cast a nervous glance at the tavernman, then
came much closer.

“And is the innkeep going to mind if you talk a bit with a customer?”

“Oh, he won’t, as long as it’s just talk.”

“What are you, then? His daughter?”

“Hah! Far from it.”

“Indeed?” Perryn paused for another longing smile. “So—part of
your hire is keeping his bed warm.”

Alaidda blushed, but she moved closer still, until her full breasts
were brushing his arm. He smiled yet again and was rewarded by
seeing her eyes go all dreamy as she smiled in return. When
Perryn saw that the tavernman was engrossed in conversation with
a pair of merchants, he risked laying his hand on her cheek.

“He doesn’t look like much of a man to me. A lass like you could
use a little better company of a night. I’m sleeping out in the
hayloft, you see. Out of . . . er, well . . . out of the way. I could go
out there right now.”

“I could follow in a bit, but I can’t stay long.” She giggled in an
drunken way. “But then, it won’t take long.”

With another giggle, Alaidda hurried away to the kitchen. Perryn
lingered long enough to finish his ale and allay the tavernman’s
suspicions, then slipped out to the hayloft. Since the lass had
something to hide, he didn’t take a candle lantern. He found his
gear in his horse’s stall, hauled it up the ladder, and stumbled
around in the dark until he got the blankets laid out and off. As he
sat waiting in the mounded hay, he began to wonder why he was
even bothering with this seduction. No woman would ever match
his Jill. The thought of her brought him close to tears, but in a few
minutes he was distracted by the sound of Alaidda climbing the
ladder. He went to meet her and kissed her before she got any
thoughts of changing her mind.

“Oh ye gods!” She sounded honestly troubled. “I hardly know
what’s wrong with me, running after you like this.”

“Naught’s wrong. Come lie down with me, and I’ll show you why
you did.”

Meekly she let him take her to his blankets. At first she was shy in
his arms, but with every kiss he gave her, he could feel not only a
growing sexual tension, but a power, a strange dark feeling that
rose from deep within and flooded him until it was almost more
demanding than the sexual force. As the power grew, she
responded to it, whimpering in his arms at every caress. Finally she
caught his hand.

“I don’t have time to take my dress off. Just pull it up, and now.
Please?”

As soon as they were finished, she gave him one last kiss and a
sincere confession that she wished she could stay all night, then
hurried back to her jealous man. By then, Perryn was so exhausted
that he was glad she was gone. He fell onto his blankets and
stared up into a strange light-shot darkness that revolved slowly
around him. When he tried to close his eyes, the feeling of motion
persisted, so strong that he wanted to vomit; he opened his eyes in
a hurry. He could feel cold sweat running down his back and chest,
and his trembling lips felt bloodless and cold. Although he wanted
to get up and go ask for help in the tavern, he knew that he could
never climb down the ladder without breaking his neck. He could
only lie there, gripping the straw under him, and pray that he wasn’t
dying.

Panic hit him like waves slapping a pier in a storm. He found
himself remembering the dweomerman who’d taken Jill away, the
fellow taunting him, then adding one last insult: you’ve got to stop
stealing women and horses, or it’ll kill you. At the time, Perryn had
assumed the fellow meant that some outraged husband would
murder him or suchlike, but now he realized the truth. Something
was wrong, very gravely wrong, and he didn’t know what it was. Did
the dweomerman know? Would he help if he did? Not likely from
the hate-filled things the fellow had thrown into his face. In a
confused babble, his thoughts went round and round until at last he
slept, tumbling into a darkness without dreams.

About two hours before noon on the morrow, Jill finally got her first
view of Dun Deverry when the barge tied up at the riverside piers
about a half mile to the north. For a long while she stared at the
massive walls that curved around the city, rising high above them
on its seven hills. Even from their distance she could just pick out
the roofs of the king’s palace. Floating high above the towers and
snapping in the wind were tiny flecks of yellow that had to be the
cloth-of-gold banners of the Wyvern throne.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Salamander said. “Let’s get those horses
unloaded and get on our way. Just wait until you see the gates.”

The gates were easily twelve feet high and twenty broad, and they
were carved all over with panels of key patterns set round with
bands of interlace. The iron banding was stamped as well with
rows of interwoven spirals and rosettes. Since the walls were a
good twenty feet thick, they walked through a sort of a tunnel and
found yet another set of gates at the other end, just as elaborately
decorated as the first. Beyond them was a wide public space,
planted with oak trees around a central fountain, where a marble
wyvern rose from the spray. From this park the narrow streets
unwound, spiraling through the houses and up the hills, or twisting
down through shops and taverns toward the lake to the west.
Everywhere Jill looked she saw people hurrying about on some
business or another, or here and there the splendidly dressed
riders of the king’s own guard.

Salamander led her to the inn he had in mind, a three-story broch
rising in the midst of a grassy garden. She looked at the roof,
covered with fine slate, and noticed that the windows glinted with
glass.

“We can’t stay here! It’ll cost a fortune!”

“Jill, my miserly turtledove.” The gerthddyn shook his head in mock
sadness. “If so, I shall earn a fortune in the tavern room to pay for
it. I cannot stand cheap inns. They stink, and the mattresses are
crawling with bugs. If I wanted to sleep on a floor, I would have
been born a hound.”

“Well, but there’s plenty of decent inns that cost less.”

“Why cavil over a few silvers? Besides, someone is meeting us
here.”

As they led their horses up to the gates, a burly young man strolled
out. He glanced with some appreciation at Salamander’s beautifully
woven cloak and gold-trimmed horse gear, then bowed.

“Is this silver dagger with you, sir?”

“He is. My bodyguard. Have you a chamber on the second floor?”

“We do. I’ll just call the lad to tend to your horses, sir.”

“Splendid. The first things we shall want are baths.”

But they had to postpone this by now necessary luxury for some
time. When Jill followed Salamander into the tavern room, which
had Bardek carpets on the floor and silver sconces on the walls,
she saw a tall man in the plaid brigga of the noble-born pacing
back and forth near the hearth. The sight of him wrung her heart,
because Blaen looked so much like her Rhodry.

“That’s Gwerbret Blaen!” she said.

“Of course. He’s the one who’s meeting us here.”

“He doesn’t know about . . . well, about Perryn, does he?”

“Of course not! Don’t you think I have any respect for your honor?
Leave that part of this to me.”

As they walked over, Blaen saw them and strode to meet them.
Although Salamander made him a courtly bow, he barely returned
it, instead catching Jill’s hand and giving it a hard squeeze.

“It gladdens my heart to see you, Jill, though it’d gladden it more if
Rhodry were with you.” He looked around and found the tavernman
staring gape-mouthed at the sight of the gwerbret greeting a silver
dagger as an old friend, “Innkeep! Send up a flagon of your best
mead to their chambers! And a plate of cold meats, too.”

The chambers justified Jill’s worst fears about expense. Not only
were they carpeted, but all the furniture was beautifully polished
wood, as heavily carved with interlace as anything in a lord’s dun.
The flagon and the plate, both silver, arrived promptly. Blaen
handed the servant lass coins worth twice what the refreshments,
cost and dismissed her peremptorily.

“Now,” said the gwerbret, pouring himself a gobletful. “Lord
Madoc’s told me, gerthddyn, that, you know how to do more things
than spin tales, so you can speak freely. Do you know where
Rhodry is?’”

“Almost to Cerrmor. In fact . . . ” He paused to glance out the
window to check, the sun. “I’d say he’s in Cerrmor at the moment,
But why is he there? That, alas, I cannot say, Your Grace.”

“No more can anyone, apparently, curse them all.” Blaen glanced
at Jill. “Pour yourself some mead, silver dagger. You’ve had quite a
journey. By the way, Jill, how did Rhodry come to leave you
behind?”

“Ah, Your Grace, that’s a strange tale indeed.” Salamander broke
in smoothly. “Rhodry was on a hire in Cerrgonney, you see.”

“I’d heard somewhat about Benoic and his unlovely kin.”

“Well and good, then. Well, Rhodry had left Jill at the dun of a
certain Lord Nedd, the man he rode for, but he never came back
for her. Fortunately I came along—I’d been looking for her for
reasons of my own, you see. I scried Rhodry out and found him
riding south. I refuse to believe that he simply deserted her.”

“No more do I.” Blaen pledged her with his goblet. “Don’t think that
for a moment, lass.”

Jill forced out a brave smile.

“So, after much thought, brooding, and ratiocination, I arrived at the
conclusion that someone, for reasons most recondite and
unknown, was luring Rhodry south. We have a hint or two that he
was told that Jill had left him and was coming after her. Be that as it
may, he’s been acting like a hunted man all the way south from
Lughcarn, while before that he traveled openly. Either somewhat
happened to him in Lughcarn, or someone told him a falsehood of
some sort.”

“That would stand to reason, truly.” Blaen sighed and drank heavily.
“I’ll wager this has somewhat to do with the situation in Aberwyn.
You know Rhodry has enemies, don’t you?”

“We do, Your Grace, Has the king made a decision as yet about a
recall?”

Jill turned away and busied herself with pouring a goblet of mead.
She wished that she could simply drink herself into forgetting that
Rhodry was being taken away from her.

“Jill,” Blaen said. “You look heartsick.”

“Why shouldn’t I be, Your Grace? I’m losing my man. Do you think
they’ll let Rhodry marry a woman like me?”

“I see no reason why not, once I’ve done ennobling you. I’m
settling land in your name over in Cwm Pecl. The gods all know
that there’s plenty to spare in my province.”

Your Grace!” Jill could barely speak. “You’re far too generous!
How can I—”

“Hush. Listen, Jill, Rhodry’s no weak younger son any longer. Once
we get him recalled, he’ll be Aberwyn’s only heir, and that means
he’ll be the gwerbret when his black-hearted brother dies. He’ll be
in a position to demand the wife he wants, no matter what his
mother or the rest of the noble-born think of it.”

Salamander laughed.

“And there you are, my turtledove—an ending exactly like one of
my tales.”

“So it seems.”

Jill smiled, because they both wanted her to be pleased, but she
felt the dweomer cold down her back. When Blaen launched into a
monologue on Eldidd politics, she wandered away to the window
and looked down on the garden below. Salamander had told Blaen
a pretty tale, sure enough; she could see how it would protect her.
If Rhodry wanted nothing more to do with her, everyone would
assume that he’d merely tired of her and left, as men so often did
to their women. And if he forgave her . . . the thought staggered
her, that she, of all lowly commoners, might someday be the wife
of a great gwerbret. For a moment she was terrified, thinking of the
responsibilities, the power that could be hers. Lovyan would teach
me she thought, if Rhodry even wants me anymore, that is.

But as the thought came to her, so did another . . . or not precisely
a thought, a feeling, rather, a sudden urgency. Rhodry was in
danger. She knew it with complete clarity, that he was in the worst
danger of his life and that in this moment of danger he was thinking
only of her. She shut her eyes and thought back to him, tried
desperately to reach him, to warn, him. Images flickered in her
mind, as hazy as those seen when a person is first falling asleep,
ever-changing glimpses: Rhodry on a narrow street, Rhodry
ducking down an alley when some of the city wardens strolled by.
Although the images flickered, the feeling of danger grew until she
could barely breathe. He was talking with, someone—he was
asking about Nevyn, asking about her—they were lying, saying that
she was in Cerrmor, giving him friendly directions—

“Rhodry, don’t go!”

She heard a crash, looked around dazed and realized, that she’d
dropped the goblet she was holding. Blaen and Salamander had
whirled round, to look at her. She had screamed her warning aloud.

“What by the gods?” Blaen said.

“Rhodry’s in Cerrmor. He’s in danger. I know he is. I saw—I felt it. I
tried to warn him.” She tossed back her head and sobbed because
she knew that the warning had never reached him. “We’ve got to
get to Cerrmor. We’ve got to leave now.”

Blaen set down his goblet and hurried over to pat her shoulder
awkwardly as she wept, as if he thought her mind turned weak and
childish by grief, but Salamander was taking her warning in dead
seriousness. Through her tears she saw him snap his fingers over
the charcoal brazier in the corner, then stare intently into the
lambent flames. She forced the tears back and wiped her face on
her sleeve.

“Ah ye gods!” There was panic in his voice. “I can’t find him! Jill, I
can’t scry him out!”

The chamber seemed to swell around her, and the light grew
painfully bright. The silver flagon on the table threw off sparks like a
fire.

“Call to Nevyn,” she said.

Then Blaen grabbed her and half led, half shoved her into a chair.
She slumped back and watched Salamander, bending over the
brazier. His tunic seemed to ripple around him as if he stood in a
breeze. She was afraid to look at the intricate carpets.

“Jill, do you need a chirurgeon?” Blaen said.

“I don’t, my thanks. It’s just the fear.” She forced herself to raise
her head and look him in the face. “Your Grace, don’t you see what
this means? Remember Alastyr? If Salamander can’t scry Rhodry
out, someone’s hiding him—with dweomer.”

As it danced over the flames, Salamander’s image looked close to
tears. Nevyn himself felt a weary sort of rage, cursing himself
because he should have seen this danger coming. Had the Lords
of Light sent some omen that he’d overlooked? He quite simply
didn’t know.

“I can’t find him either,” Nevyn thought.

“Is he dead, then?”

“He can’t be, because Jill would know if he were. When you
consider how much she saw of his danger, I think we can trust that
she’d feel his death. How soon can you get to Cerrmor?”

“We should arrive tomorrow.”

“Ye gods! What are you going to do, turn into birds and fly?”

“Naught of the sort, truly.” Salamander managed a faint smile. “The
king has placed one of the royal riverboats at Blaen’s disposal.
We’ll leave soon, and not only will the current be running our way,
but we’ll have a crew of rowers. The Belaver runs cursed fast from
here to Drauddbry, I’m told.”

“Splendid. Is Blaen going with you?”

“He’s not. The intrigue at court would gripe your very soul, and he
doesn’t dare leave. We have letters from him, though, for the
gwerbret in Cerrmor. Are you going to join us there?”

“I’ll leave at once. I never dreamt they would go as far as this. Can’t
you see what must have happened? Rhodry’s rivals must have
hired one of the Bardek blood guilds to dispose of him.”

Salamander’s image, floating above the fire, looked intensely
puzzled.

“How would petty lords from Eldidd even know those guilds exist?”

“Well, some merchant or other must have told them, or . . .  I see
what you mean. It sounds very farfetched once I say it aloud.”

“Then what’s happened?’

“What indeed? Be very careful until I reach Cerrmor. Ye gods, I’ll
have to take a ship! I can’t leave until I’ve spoken with Lovyan, of
course, but I can start packing. Her Grace is out hunting with the
gwerbret at the moment.”

Down on the Eldidd coast, it was a bright sunny day, although the
wind that whipped the silver-and-blue banners of Aberwyn was
chilly and the shadows that lay in the great ward of the gwerbret’s
dun were positively cold. As she stood beside her horse, Lady
Lovyan glanced doubtfully at the sky.

“It might be a bit windy to fly the falcons.”

“Oh, let’s try our luck, Mother,” Rhys said.

He spoke with such forced cheer that she knew this hunting party
was merely an excuse to speak with her alone.

“By all means, then. We’ll have a good ride if naught else.”

They mounted and rode out of the dun into the streets of Aberwyn.
Behind them came the falconers, with the hooded birds on their
wrists, and four men from Rhys’s warband as an escort As they
wound their way through the curving streets, the common folk
bowed to their overlord, who acknowledged the gesture with an
upraised hand. Occasionally—and quite spontaneously—boys and
young men cheered him. For all his stubbornness, Rhys was a
good ruler, scrupulously fair in his judgments over everyone but his
younger brother, and his townsfolk appreciated him for it.

When they left the city, they turned north on the river road that
followed the Gwyn, sparkling and full from the summer’s heavy
rains. Among the willows and hazels that grew along the water,
Lovyan saw a tree or two that were turning yellow.

“It seems that autumn’s coming quite fast this year,” she remarked.

“It does. Well, we’ve had a wretchedly cold summer.” Rhys turned
in his saddle to make sure that his men were following at a
respectfully far distance behind, then turned her way. “Here,
Mother, I’ve got somewhat to ask you. It’s about little Rhodda.”

“Indeed?”

“I was thinking that I might formally adopt the child and legitimize
her.”

Lovyan was caught with nothing to say. Rhys gave her an ironic
smile that must have cost him dear.

“It’s time I faced the harsh truth of things. I’ll never give Aberwyn an
heir.”

“The gwerbretrhyn can’t pass down in the female line.”

“Of course not, but she’ll marry someday, won’t she? Have a
husband, maybe a son or two. At least they’ll have some
Maelwaedd blood in them.”

“If the Council of Electors accepted her husband as your
successor, anyway.”

“There’s precedent for it, hundreds of years of precedent.” He
tossed his head in anger. “Besides, at least it’ll give my vassals
pause. Ye gods, don’t you think it aches my heart? I know cursed
well that every tieryn in Eldidd is already scheming and politicking
to get my lands for their son when I die.”

“True-spoken, alas. But you know, my sweet, there’s a much easier
solution—”

“I will not recall Rhodry.”

His mouth settled into the tight line she knew so well.

“As His Grace decides, of course, but how can you adopt the child
without her father’s permission?”

“Rhodry’s an outlaw. Under the laws she has no father.”

“Very well, then. I’ll think the matter over, since His Grace persists
in being as stubborn as a wild boar.”

He merely shrugged the insult away and went back to watching the
road in front of him. Lovyan wondered why she even bothered to
hint, scheme, and badger to get her youngest son home. Rhys
simply couldn’t bear to let Rhodry inherit, she thought. Now, if
Rhodry would only get a son on that Jill of his, but there she is,
poor lamb, riding all over with him and sleeping out in the rain on
the ground, and the Goddess only knows what else. Doubtless her
womanly humors are utterly disrupted and—

Suddenly Rhys’s horse went mad. Lovyan could think of it no other
way as the black neighed and bucked, then reared, striking out with
its forehooves as if at an enemy. Rhys flew forward, caught himself
on its neck, then slipped sideways as it bucked again. Although he
was a splendid rider, the horse was rearing and pitching in utter
panic, and he’d been taken off-guard. She heard his men shouting,
heard other hoofbeats, but Rhys’s black twisted, bucked, then
slipped and went down, throwing Rhys hard and falling on top of
him. She heard a woman screaming, then realized that the voice
was hers.

Suddenly the escort was all around her. One man grabbed the
bridle of her frightened palfrey and led her away; the others
dismounted and rushed to their lord’s side. Back under control,
Lovyan gestured at the man holding her horse.

“Ride back to the dun! Bring Nevyn and a cart!”

“My lady.” He made her a half-bow from, the saddle, then galloped
off.

Lovyan dismounted and hurried over just as the horse struggled to
its feet, its off-fore dangling and broken. One of the riders blocked
her way.

“My lady, you’d best not look.”

“Don’t speak nonsense! I’ve tended my share of wounds in my
day.”

She shoved him aside and knelt down beside Rhys. He lay so still
that at first she thought him dead, but when she touched his cheek,
his eyes fluttered open, His face twisted in agony as he tried to
speak.

“Whist, whist, little one. Well have Nevyn here soon.”

He nodded, then stared up at the sky, his mouth working in pain.
Blood ran down his face from a slash over his eye; she could see
that his left leg was broken, probably in several places. Yet she
knew that the worst damage might have been done internally where
no chirurgeon could heal, not even Nevyn. She could only pray to
the Goddess until at last the old man rode up at the gallop, with a
wagon rumbling after. Nevyn swung himself down from his horse
and ran over.

“Does he live?”

“Barely.”

Lovyan got out of the way and stood with the escort by the side of
the road as Nevyn went to work, straightening the leg and roughly
splinting it. As he ran his long graceful hands over Rhys’s body,
she saw him shaking his head and swearing under his breath, and
her heart turned cold. At last Nevyn called the carter to help him lift
the injured gwerbret into the wagon. By then, Rhys had mercifully
fainted. Lovyan got in with him and cradled his bloody head in her
lap. Nevyn watched, his ice-blue eyes unreadable.

“I want the cold truth,” Lovyan said. “Will he die?”

“Well, my lady, I simply don’t know. His Grace is a truly strong man,
and he’ll fight for his life, but it’s very grave. A weaker man would
be dead already.”

To jostle the injured man as little as possible, they rode slowly
back to Aberwyn. Over and over, Lovyan saw the accident in her
mind. Why did the horse panic? There wasn’t so much as a mouse
running across the road. It had happened like dweomer. Suddenly
she went cold all over and called out to Nevyn, who was riding a
little behind. He urged his horse up to ride beside the cart.

“Nevyn, this accident was a most peculiar one.”

“The man you sent to fetch me said as much, my lady. May I
suggest that we discuss it privately?”

“Of course.” She felt her fear like a hand at her throat. The old man
apparently agreed with her sudden insight.

Rhys’s wife, Madronna, met them at the gates. A willowy blond
woman, she was pretty in a vacuous sort of way, but now her
childlike face was composed by an iron will. Lovyan had to admire
her daughter-in-law, who was sincerely fond of her husband.

“His chamber’s prepared,” Madronna said. “How bad is—”

“Bad, truly, but not the end. We’ll nurse him through this between
us.”

While the men carried Rhys to the chamber, Lovyan went to her
suite, took off her blood-soaked dress, and washed thoroughly.
She put on a clean dress, a somber one of gray linen, then looked
at herself in a mirror. The face that looked back seemed to have
aged years since the morning. She was painfully aware of the deep
wrinkles slashed across her cheeks and the numb, half-dead look
of her eyes.

“Ah, Goddess, am I to bury another son?’

She laid the mirror down and turned away, knowing that she would
do just that, for all Nevyn’s skill with his herbs. Yet she could not
cry. She found herself remembering the day her second son was
brought home to her, her gentle Aedry, just sixteen that summer,
brought home wrapped in a blanket and tied over his horse, killed
riding with his father in a war. She stood in the ward and watched
while they cut the ropes and brought him down, and she never
allowed herself one tear, because she knew the warband was
watching, and if she cried at all, she would start screaming like a
madwoman. She felt the same now. No matter how furious Rhys
made her, he was still her firstborn son.

With a toss of her head, she left the chamber and went down to the
great hall. Over on the riders’ side, the men were drinking steadily
and saying little, even the ten men of her own that she’d brought as
escort. As she walked past, she motioned to her captain, Cullyn of
Cerrmor. He hurried over to the honor table and knelt at her side.

“Will he live, my lady?”

“I can only hope so, Captain. I need to send a speeded courier to
Dun Deverry. The king has to be informed of this. Pick the man you
think best and get him ready to go.”

“Done, my lady, but it had best be one of Rhys’s men.”

“For the formality, I suppose you’re right, but I can’t command
them.”

“But, my lady, you’re the regent here now.”

“Oh by the gods, so I am! It’s all happened so fast that I can barely
think.”

“It would take anyone that way, my lady.” He hesitated, honestly
sympathetic, but bound by considerations of rank. Finally he spoke
again. “Your Grace, you know that I’ve had my differences with the
gwerbret in the past, but it aches my heart to see your grief.”

“My thanks.”

When he looked up, she suddenly remembered Rhodry, and what
Rhys’s death might mean. The battle-grim warrior kneeling beside
her loved Rhodry like a son, and she knew that Cullyn was as torn
as she was. If Rhys died—even if he merely lay ill for months—the
king would have the perfect reason to recall his brother, and Rhys
would be unable to say a word in protest. She wanted Rhodry
home with all her heart, but to have it take this?

“Ah gods.” Her voice sounded like a moan, even to her, and she
forced herself to stay in control of her rising tears. “Captain, fetch
me a scribe and the captain of Rhys’s warband. We’ve got to get
that message to Dun Deverry as soon as ever we can.”

For hours Nevyn worked on the injured gwerbret, but even as he
set the broken leg and stitched the bad cut over the eye, he felt his
hope receding. Sooner rather than later, Rhys would die. The fall
had damaged one of his lungs—Nevyn could hear that by putting
his ear to the gwerbret’s chest—but how badly he couldn’t know.
The one good sign was that Rhys was not spitting up blood, which
would mean that the lung had been punctured by a splinter from
one of his many broken ribs. In time, it might heal, though he
doubted it. What was worse was the damage to his kidneys. By
opening up his second sight Nevyn could see the gwerbret’s aura,
and in it the centers of the various vortices of etheric force that
correspond to the major organs of the body. Although such a
diagnosis was rough, he could tell that something was severely
wrong internally, centered on the kidneys. Just how severe, again,
he couldn’t say. He knew that time would make it all horribly clear.

Finally he’d done what he could do. Propped up on pillows, Rhys
lay gasping for every breath he drew on the enormous bed, with its
blue-and-silver hangings, worked all over with the dragon symbol of
the rhan. His raven-dark hair was plastered to his forehead with
sweat, and when he opened his eyes, they were cloudy.

“Will I live?”

“That depends on you to a large degree, Your Grace. Are you
going to fight to live?”

Rhys smiled, as if saying that the question was superfluous, then
fainted. With a sigh, Nevyn went to the chamber door to let in his
wife, who had patiently waited all the long hours. She gave him a
tremulous smile, then ran to her husband’s side.

“If he looks the least bit worse, send a page for me immediately,
my lady. I’m going down to the great hall to eat.”

“I will, good herbman. My thanks.”

Nevyn came into a somber hall. The warbands ate silently; the
servants moved among them without saying a word. Alone at the
head of the honor table, Lovyan was picking at a bit of roast fowl,
eating a bite, then laying her table dagger down and staring into
space. He sat down at her right hand.

“You should try to eat, Your Grace.”

“Of course, but everything tastes like dirt from the stable yard. I’ve
sent a messenger off to Dun Gwerbyn to fetch my serving women.
I rather feel the need of them.”

“Just so. As regent you’ll have much serious business to attend
to.”

A servant came with a trencher of fowl and cabbage, as well as a
tankard of ale. Hoping he wouldn’t offend Lovyan, Nevyn set to. He
was hungry after his hard afternoon’s work. She choked down a bit
of bread like a dutiful child.

“I also sent a speeded courier to Dun Deverry,” she remarked.
“He’ll go by ship to Cerrmor, then ride from there.”

“Good, but truly, I think I’ll send a message of my own. The king
needs to know of this before . . . as soon as possible, and my
messages travel faster than horses.”

“No doubt.” She shuddered like a wet dog. “Tell me the truth, my
friend. When you slipped and said “before,” you meant before
Rhys dies, didn’t you?”

“I’m afraid I did. My apologies. It may take weeks, but . . . ”

She nodded, staring at her trencher, then suddenly pushed it away.
Although she seemed on the verge of tears, she tossed her head
and sat up straight looking at him steadily.

“Let’s lie to his poor little wife,” she said. “Let her have a bit of
hope. It’s hard to be widowed, when you’ve only been a wife for a
year.”

“So it is, and I agree. Besides, the gods may intervene and let him
live. I’ve seen one or two cases where I’d given up hope, only to
have the patient recover.”

“Well and good then.” Yet her weary voice implied that such a
hope was one that she would deny herself. “And what of that
accident? There wasn’t even a fly buzzing round his horse.”

“So I thought, from what your messenger told me.” He hesitated,
wondering how much to say. “I’m not truly sure what happened, but
I’ve made a few guesses. I suppose that poor beast was put out of
its misery?”

“It was. The riders told me that it would have been in agony the
whole way back to the dun, so they slit its throat and gave the meat
to a nearby farmer.”’

“Well, I doubt if it could have told me much, anyway.”

“Here, can you speak with animals?”

“Not in the least, my lady, I assure you. But I might have done a
thing or two and judged its reactions. Well, as I say, doubtless
naught would have come of it, anyway. Here’s what I’ve been
thinking. Most animals have what men call the second sight—that
is, they can see the Wildfolk and a few kinds of apparitions. It’s
possible that the horse was frightened by malicious Wildfolk or by
some sort of vision.”

“A vision? A ghost or suchlike?”

“Or suchlike. There’s never been a report of a ghost or banshee
along the river road before, and they’re generally tied to one
place.”

“I’ve never heard reports of any other sort of vision along that road
either.”

“Just so. I think we can conclude that the vision or the Wildfolk or
whatever it was was deliberately sent there.”

“Sent?” Her face went very pale.

“Just that, my lady. I’ll wager that someone used dweomer to try
and murder your son. When I find out who he is, then I swear to
you, he’ll rue the day he was born.”

“My thanks.” Although she spoke in a whisper, she was calm, the
cold, bitter calm of a warrior surveying the field. “You told me that
there was evil dweomer working behind Lord Corbyn when he
rebelled. I never thought to see a blood feud worked by dweomer,
but that’s what this must be, isn’t it? First they try to kill Rhodry, and
now they’ve succeeded with Rhys. For some reason they hate the
Maelwaedd clan.”

“Ye gods, you’re right enough! And Rhodry is . . . ” He caught
himself barely in time. There was no need to burden her with the
truth at this particular moment. “Out somewhere on the roads. Well,
doubtless the king’s men will find him soon. The gods all know that
they have more reason than ever to look for him.”

Lovyan nodded, staring blindly down at her plate. Nevyn got up and
went to the fire. He had to tell Salamander immediately that he
could no longer come to Cerrmor. He would have to do his best to
keep Rhys alive until the king made up his mind to recall Rhodry
and instate him as Aberwyn’s heir. He had another piece of
information to pass along, too, the grim truth that Lovyan had seen,
that the matter had gone far beyond the politicking of Eldidd lords.
The dark dweomer was waging war on the Maelwaedd clan.

The king was having his hair bleached. In the midst of his private
chamber, Lallyn the Second, high king of all Deverry and Eldidd,
sat on a low bench carved with grappling wyverns while the royal
barber draped towels around his liege’s shoulders. As an honor to
his high rank, Blaen was allowed to kneel at the king’s side and
hold the silver tray of implements. Ever since Madoc had come to
him with the news, he’d been trying to have a private work with
Lallyn, but in all the pomp that surrounded the king, private words
were difficult to get. Even though the king sincerely wanted to hear
what he had to say, this was the first chance they’d found all
evening.

Carefully the barber began packing the king’s wet hair with lime
from a wooden bowl. Soon Lallyn would look like one of the great
heroes of the Dawntime, with a lion’s mane of stiff, swept-back hair
to add further to his six feet of height, Such a hairstyle was a royal
prerogative, and, as the king remarked, a royal nuisance, too.

“Blasted lucky, aren’t you, Blaen? Look on our sufferings and be
glad you were born a gwerbret’s son.”

“Glad I am, my liege.”

The barber wrapped two steaming-wet towels around the king’s
head and fastened them with a circlet of fine gold.

“My liege, it will be some few minutes.”

“It’s always more than just a few. You may leave us.”

Bowing, walking backward, the barber retreated to the corridor.
Blaen sincerely hoped that the king was going to believe his
strange tale.

“Now, Blaen, what’s this urgent news?”

“Well, my liege, do you remember Lord Madoc?”

“The sorcerer’s nephew? Of course.”

“Here! You know that Nevyn’s a sorcerer, my liege?”

Lallyn grinned at him while he adjusted a slipping towel.

“I do, at that. There’s quite a tradition, passed down from king to
marked prince, about sorcerers named Nevyn. The name’s
something of an honorific, or so my father told me, handed on like
the kingship. In times of great need, one Nevyn or another will
come to aid the king. I always thought it a peculiar tale and
wondered why my father would tell me such a lie—until those gems
were stolen, and lo and behold, a Nevyn appeared to return them
to me. I prayed to my father in the Otherlands and made my
apologies quite promptly, I tell you.”

“I see. Well, then, I trust my liege will believe me when I tell him
that Madoc has dweomer, too.”

“Ah, I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. I’m glad enough to know, but is
this what you had to tell me?”

“Not at all, my liege. I’ve learned that dweomermen have ways of
sending messages with their thoughts. Madoc came to me earlier
with urgent news from Nevyn. He begged me to tell you, because
he knew it would be difficult for a man of his rank to gain a private
audience with the king, and this has to be kept private for as long
as possible. Soon the whole court will know, because a speeded
courier’s on the way from Aberwyn, but Nevyn wanted Your
Highness to get the news first.”

“I see. And what is this grave matter?”

“Rhys of Aberwyn had a bad fall in a hunting accident today, my
liege. They doubt if he’ll live long—an eightnight, perhaps; at the
most, a month.”

The king stared at him for a moment, then swore in a way more
fitting for a common-born rider than royalty.

“I agree, my liege. You can see why I thought it best that my liege
heard this news straightaway.”

“Just so.” The king gingerly settled a slipping towel while he
thought things over. “And I’m most grateful to you for it. Eldidd
politics are always dangerous.”

“So they are. No doubt my liege needs no reminding that the line of
succession in Aberwyn will break as soon as Rhys dies.”

“No doubt. I’m also quite aware how much your exiled cousin
means to you, Your Grace. Rest assured that the matter is under
my consideration.”

Blaen felt the formal tone of voice like a slap across the face. He
was being reminded that no matter how often they hunted or drank
together, no matter how easily Lallyn would jest with him when the
mood took him, the king was as far above him as he was above the
common folk.

“My humble thanks, my liege. Your consideration is all that I’d ever
ask for in this matter.”

The king nodded with a glance away.

“Tell the barber that he can come back, will you? I want these
towels off and now. I have some serious thinking to do.”

In spite of the king’s return to a more familiar tone, Blaen knew that
he’d been dismissed. As he rose and bowed, he was wondering
just what Talidd of Belglaedd and his allies had been telling their
leige.

“I know Blaen will take good care of him, but I hate to leave Sunrise
behind,” Jill said.

“Oh, come now, my turtledove.” Salamander was busy tying shut
his saddlebags. “Every lad in the royal stables will be fussing over
him, and with luck, we won’t be gone long.”

“I doubt me if we’re going to have that kind of luck.”

He paused, turning to look at her. They were in the inn chamber
with their packed gear strewn around them.

“Well? Do you think—”

“I don’t.” He sighed elaborately. “I was merely trying to console.”

There was a brief knocking at the door, and Blaen strode in without
waiting for an invitation. With him were two serving lads who
immediately began gathering up the gear.

“The galley’s ready,” Blaen announced. “I’ll accompany you down
to the docks.”

“His Grace is most kind.” Salamander made him a bow. “And our
liege the king as well.”

“Indeed? I’ve found out—or, I should say, my lady found
out—exactly why Savyl of Camynwaen is taking a hand in this affair.
His younger brother has a slight claim to Aberwyn.”

“Truly?” Jill said. “I never heard Lady Lovyan mention him.”

“Well, it’s not truly the sort of thing my aunt would dwell upon. You
see, Rhodry’s father had two bastard daughters with a mistress of
his. Savyl’s brother married one of them.”

“Two daughters?” Salamander broke in. “Well, fancy that! Or . . .
here, of course. You mean Gwerbret Tingyr.”

“And who else would I be meaning?”

Jill gave Salamander a subtle sidewise kick.

“No one, Your Grace.” Salamander covered smoothly. “I’d merely
forgotten the gwerbret’s name.”

“Ah. Well, it’s hard to keep all the noble bloodlines up in mind, truly.
Here.” Blaen tossed Salamander an embroidered cloth pouch.
“Use this wisely.”

Whistling under his breath, Salamander hefted the pouch and
made it jingle.

“From the weight and the sound, Your Grace, there must be a
cursed lot of gold in here.”

“As much as I could raise. I intend to get it back from my
scapegrace cousin once he’s Aberwyn, mind.”

Although he spoke casually, Jill could hear the tension in his voice,
a wondering, perhaps, if he were bankrupting himself to little end.
Once again she was overwhelmed by the sheer weight or ruling,
the smothering web of obligations and intrigues that overlaid even
something as fine as Blaen’s and Rhodry’s love for each other.
Salamander made the gwerbret an exaggerated bow.

“We shall do our best to protect His Grace’s investment.” Then he
flicked his long fingers and made the pouch disappear, seemingly
into nothingness.

By then it was just sunset, and long shadows filled the curving
streets. When they reached the wooden wharves to the south of
the city, the sky had turned a velvet blue-gray with twilight. Over the
grassy riverbanks bold swallows swooped and twisted. Riding low
in the water some little way from the masses of barges and skiffs
was the royal galley, about forty feet long and sleek as a ferret.
There were red shields painted with the royal gold wyvern at every
oarlock, and the men who lounged at the oars were wearing white
shirts embroidered with the wyvern badge and long lines of
interlace.

“The king’s elite?” Salamander raised an eyebrow.

“The same,” Blaen said. “I can’t tell you, though, if our liege is
doing this for Rhodry’s sake or mine.”

“Surely the king doesn’t want to see Eldidd at war?” Salamander
said. “Because if Rhodry doesn’t return, war is what we’ll have.
Each clan will be accusing the others of murdering the rightful heir
and claiming the rhan for themselves.”

“I’m sure our liege knows that as well as you do.” Yet Blaen
sounded oddly stiff, a bit frightened, perhaps. “I’m not privy to all
his thoughts, gerthddyn.”

At the sight of Blaen, the galley’s captain hopped to the pier and
hurried over with a bow. While the servants loaded the gear
aboard, Jill turned away and watched the smooth-flowing river.
Desperately she tried to scry Rhodry out, but her untrained mind
could show her nothing. All at once she felt another fear and
involuntarily yelped aloud.

What is it?” Salamander said.

“Perryn. He’s close by. I know it.”

She spun around, half expecting to see him in the crowd behind
them, but there was no one there but curious passersby and a few
longshoremen. Yet up in the velvet sky it seemed to her that she
saw a long tendril of mist, reaching down toward her. Salamander
saw it, too. When he threw up one hand and muttered a few words,
the tendril vanished.

“He’s in town, all right. Madoc will be taking care of that, Jill. Don’t
worry about a thing.”

“Still, can’t we get on that wretched boat and get out of here?”

“This very minute. There’s the captain signaling us aboard.”

Perryn paused just inside the south gate of the city. Just a moment
ago he’d felt Jill’s nearness; now the trail had suddenly gone cold.
His dapple gray stamped impatiently and tossed its head. When
they’d ridden into the vast city earlier that afternoon, the gray had
nearly panicked. It had taken all of Perryn’s horse empathy to calm
it, and even so, it was still restless.

“Here, you! Are you going in or out? It’s time to close the gates.”

Perryn turned to see two city guards hurrying toward him, one of
them carrying a torch. The cavernous gateway was already quite
dark.

“Oh, er, ah, well . . . in, I think.”

“Then don’t just think—move, man!”

As Perryn obediently began to lead his horses toward the inner
gate, the guard carrying the torch raised it high to shine the light full
on his face.

“Your name wouldn’t be Lord Perryn of Alobry, would it, now?”

“It is at that. Why?”

The torch bearer whistled sharply, three loud notes. The other
guard grabbed Perryn’s shoulder with his left hand and slammed
his fist hard into his stomach, so quickly that Perryn had no time to
dodge. He doubled over, retching, as two more guards ran up and
grabbed his horses’ reins from his helpless fingers.

“Good work! You’ve got the weasel Lord Madoc wanted, right
enough.”

“Talks like a simpleton, his lordship told me, and he must be one,
too, to answer to his name like that.”

Although the world still danced around him, Perryn forced himself
to raise his head and look in time to see a guard rummaging
through his saddlebags. With a bark of triumph, he held up the
rambling scribe. When Perryn made a feeble grab at it, another
guard slapped him across the face.

“None of that, horse thief. The only thing this scribe’s going to write
for you now is your death writ.”

They disarmed him, bound his hands behind him, then pushed him
along through the streets. Those few people still out at night
stopped to stare and jeer when the guards announced that he was
horse thief. At one point they met a slender young man, wearing
the plaid brigga of the noble-born, who was followed by a page
with a torch.

“A horse thief, is he?” the young lord said. “When will you be
hanging him?”

“Don’t know, my lord. We’ve got to have the trial first.”

“True enough. Well, no doubt I’ll hear of it. My mistress is quite
keen on hangings, you see.” He gave the guard a conspiratorial
wink. “She finds them quite . . . well, shall we say exciting? And so I
take her to every single one.”

At last they reached the guard station at the foot of the royal hill and
turned Perryn over to the men there, though the man who’d first
recognized him stayed to escort him into the royal compound itself.
By then Perryn had recovered enough from the blows to feel the
terror: they were going to hang him. There was no use lying to the
king’s officers; the rambling scribe would hang him on its own.
Although at one point he did have a sentimental pang that he’d
never see Jill again, at the root he was too terrified to care much
about that one way or another. What counted was that he was
going to die. No matter how hard he tried to pull himself together
and face his death like a warrior, he kept trembling and sweating.
When his guards noticed, they laughed.

“You should have thought about this rope when you were putting
one on another man’s horses, you cowardly little bastard.”

“There must be a bit of fun to being hanged, lad. Why, a man gets
hard, then spews all over himself when the noose jerks.”

They kept up the jests the entire time that they were dragging him
through the warren of sheds and outbuildings that surrounded the
king’s many-towered broch complex. In the flickering torchlight
Perryn was completely disoriented. By the time that they shoved
him into a tiny cell in a long stone building, he had no idea of which
way north lay, much less of the layout of the palace grounds.

The cell was about eight feet on a side, with fairly clean straw on
the floor and a leather bucket, swarming with flies, in one corner. In
the door was a small barred opening that let in a bit of light from the
corridor. Perryn stood next to it and tried to hear what the guards
were saying, but they moved down along the corridor and out of
earshot. He heard: “Of course Lord Madoc’s interested in horse
thieves; he’s an equerry, isn’t he?” before they were gone. All at
once his legs went weak. He slumped down into the straw before
he fell and covered his face with his hands. Somehow or other,
he’d offended one of the powerful royal servitors. He was doomed.

Perryn had no idea of how long he’d sat there before the door
opened. A guard handed him a trencher with half a loaf of bread
and a couple of slices of cold meat on it.

“Pity that we had to take your dagger away, lad.” His smile was not
pleasant, “Just use your teeth like a wolf, eh? In the morning one of
the undercouncillors will be along to see you.”

“What for?”

“To tell you about your rights, of course. Here, they caught you red-
handed, but you’ll still get a trial, and you’ve got the right to have
your kin by your side. Just tell the fellow, and he’ll get a herald to
them.”

“I don’t want them to know. Ah ye gods, I’d rather die slowly in
pieces than look my uncle in the eye over this.”

“Pity you didn’t think of that before, eh? Well, I’m sure it can all be
arranged. If you don’t want your kin here, no need to waste the
herald’s time.”

The warder handed in a tankard of ale, then locked the door.
Perryn heard him whistling as he walked away.

Although, the food and drink were unexpectedly decent, Perryn ate
only to pass the time. The thought of Benoic and Nedd learning of
his shame had taken his appetite away. Sooner or later they would,
too, no matter whether they were there to watch him hang or not.
He thought of the warder’s words, that he might have thought of all
this before, and wept a few tears for the truth of it.

“But I didn’t really steal them. They followed me, didn’t they?’

“Only in a manner of speaking.”

He yelped and leapt to his feet, scattering the bread into the straw.
There was a man standing on the other side of the door, a
pleasant-looking fellow with blond hair and blue eyes. The sheer
bulk of the elaborate embroidery on his shirt proclaimed him a
member of the king’s household.

“I’m, Lord Madoc. Guards, bring him. out.”

“Are you going to hang me right now?”

“Naught of the sort. I want a few words with you, lad.”

They bound his hands, then marched him along to the wardroom, a
long, narrow chamber with an oppressively low ceiling. Down one
wall was a row of sconces, and lit torches; down the other, a narrow
table spread with the tools of the torturer’s trade.

“I’ll confess,” Perryn bleated. “You don’t have to do anything to
me.”

“Splendid, but I wasn’t planning on having you tortured. I want look
at you. Guards, tie him to the wall; then you can get back to your
dinners.”

“My thanks, Your Lordship.” The guard captain made him a bow.
“Do you have any idea of when he’ll go to trial?”

“Oh, he won’t be tried here. Our liege is remanding him to Rhys,
Gwerbret Aberwyn. This little idiot raped the daughter of one of the
gwerbret’s highly regarded subjects, and under Eldidd law her
father has the right to cut him to pieces.”

Perryn’s knees buckled. If he hadn’t been tied to an iron ring
attached to the wall, he would have fallen.

“Huh,” the captain snorted. “A fine figure of a noble lord he is,
raping women and stealing horses!”

Once the guards were gone, Madoc turned to Perryn and
considered him with eyes so cold and distant that Perryn began to
sweat again.

“Do you know who Jill’s father is, lad?”

“I don’t, my lord.”

“Cullyn of Cerrmor, that’s who.”

Perryn yelped, a strangled little sob.

“Just so. They’ll give him a sword and shield, hand you a dagger to
defend yourself, then turn him loose on you. Think you’ll win the
ritual combat?”

Perryn shook his head no.

“I doubt me, as well. And even if you had all the gold in the world to
offer as compensation, Cullyn wouldn’t take it instead of your
blood. So, are you going to face him, or are you going to do as I
say instead?”

“Anything, my lord. I’ll do anything. Please, I never raped her, I truly
didn’t. I thought she loved me, I truly did.”

“I know, and your stupidity is the one thing that’s saving you now. If
I untie you, will you give me your word of honor that you won’t try to
escape?”

“Gladly. I doubt me if I could run, my lord, the way I feel.”

“No doubt.” He stepped back and considered him in a strange way,
his eyes moving as if he were looking all around Perryn rather than
at him. “Truly, you’re halfway to being dead, aren’t you?”

The lord’s words seemed true enough. As soon as he was untied,
Perryn staggered and would have fallen if it weren’t for Madoc’s
support. The equerry half led, half hauled him down the room to a
low bench by a hearth, where some tinder and small sticks were
laid ready for a fire. Madoc laid on a pair of logs, then snapped his
fingers. Fire sprang out and danced along the wood. Perryn
screamed. He clapped his hands over his mouth to force a second
scream back, then swiveled around, crouching, to stare up at
Madoc in terror.

“Well, you looked chilled, lad. Thought we’d have a bit of a blaze.
Now, you young dolt, do you see what you’ve gotten yourself
tangled up in? From now on, you’re going to do exactly what I say,
or . . . ”

“I will. Anything at all, my lord. I swear to you on the honor of the
Wolf clan and the gods of my people.”

“Good. Remember that during your trip to Eldidd.”

“I’m going there? You said you wouldn’t . . . ”

“I said I wouldn’t let Cullyn get hold of you. There’s another man
there who very much wants a chat with you. My uncle.”




THREE

In those days, Cerrmor had yet to expand to the place where the
Gwarmael and the Bel rivers meet. A small village, Dei’ver, stood
there, some forty houses and a pair of wooden docks, with a
couple of inns to serve travelers who couldn’t reach Cerrmor
before nightfall. The royal galley put in there, ostensibly to buy ale,
but in reality to set Jill ashore. Since Salamander had letters for the
gwerbret, he would be marked at once as an important man in the
city. Since she wanted to ask some questions of the kind of people
who would have nothing to do with anyone associated with His
Grace and his wardens, she needed to ride in alone.

Carrying the old saddle and bridle she’d brought from Dun Deverry
for this purpose, and laden down with her gear, too, she made a
great show of limping and cursing as she came into the village, as
if she’d had to walk a long way in her riding boots. When she
reached the dusty open space that did duty as a town square, she
saw a couple of idlers sitting in the shade of a willow tree.

“What happened, silver dagger? Lose your horse?”

“I did. Broke his leg about five miles north of here. Is there anyone
in town who can sell me another? By the love of every god, I hope
I never walk that far again.”

Since horses were a luxury beyond their reach, the villagers
laughed in a nasty sort of way, but one of them waved his hand
southward.

“Try the big inn by the Cerrmor road, lad. Old Mat sometimes has
an extra horse or two in his stable.”

“My thanks. By the way, have there been any other silver daggers
through here recently? I’m looking for a friend of mine, an Eldidd
man he is, but I wouldn’t know what name he’s traveling under.”

The two of them exchanged a brief look.

“Well, seeing as how you’re another silver dagger and all, I don’t
suppose there’s any harm in telling you. An Eldidd man calling
himself Adoryc came through here two days ago. He had the
dagger in his belt.”

“What’s he wanted for?” the second man chimed in.

“Cursed if I know. The gwerbret’s men don’t tell the likes of me
their business.” Jill shrugged as best she could under all her
burdens. “Well, I’ll be getting along. My back’s breaking.”

As she limped away, Jill was thinking that Rhodry must have
spread plenty of silver around on his ride south to keep local
tongues mute. Even so, it was odd that no one who’d seen him had
told the gwerbret’s men the truth once the man who’d given them
the coin had ridden on. It was probably the reputation of silver
daggers that kept them honest, she supposed, the simple fear that
Rhodry or someone else would come back to slit their throats if
they failed to keep the bargain.

She found the big inn and Old Mat easily enough, and indeed, he
did have a horse for sale, a decent gray gelding with a white off-
fore and a white blaze. She haggled long enough to be convincing,
then paid over some of Blaen’s coin and saddled up the gelding.
They left the village at a quick walk-trot pace, but once they were
well on the road, she let the gelding canter.

In about an hour, not long before sunset, Jill reached the north gate
of the city. Coming to Cerrmor always made her a bit melancholy.
Since her parents had been born and raised there, she’d heard
about it all her life, and it seemed that it should have been her
home, too. Except that I have no home at all, she thought. Now she
had even more reason to feel a total stranger, because dweomer
was riding into town with her. With a bitter twist of her mouth, she
realized that whether she fought against her own dweomer or not, it
had already made her an alien among her people. It was also
putting her in danger. As she led her horse down the narrow,
twisting streets, through the packs of beggars and crowds of
merchants and townsfolk, she was aware of how easy it would be
for someone to slip up behind her and stick a dagger in her ribs.
During her long walk down to the harbor, she constantly looked
around and behind her.

That was probably why she saw the old woman at all. Just as Jill
crossed the market square, a wagon filled with hay for the
gwerbret’s horses took a turn a little too sharply and tipped,
blocking the street. Cursing, the carters picked themselves up off
the cobbles as the strollers who had been right behind them milled
in confusion and a noble on horseback began yelling at everyone
to get out of his way that very instant. Jill turned her horse around
and started working her way back along the edge of the square. All
at once, she felt that she was being watched and spun around,
perched on a low wall with a market basket in her lap was a gray-
haired woman wearing the black headscarf of a widow. Although
much-mended, her plain blue dress was clean, caught in by a
precisely folded kirtle. She was staring at Jill so intensely that Jill
laid her hand on her sword hilt without thinking. The old woman
shrank back.

“My apologies, lad. You just remind me of someone I used to
know, like.”

“No offense, good dame.”

Up ahead the crowd cleared and began to disperse. Jill hurried
through the opening, then stopped cold. That voice—the old
woman’s voice—by the gods, it had sounded familiar! But whose?
Like her mother’s. And the old woman had found her familiar in
turn. Swearing under her breath, Jill got her horse turned around in
the crowd and shoved her way back to the wall. The old woman
was gone. Although she searched the area around the market
square for some twenty minutes, she never caught another
glimpse of the woman who might have been her grandmother. She
felt her eyes fill with tears, irritably wiped them away, then headed
down to the harbor. Rhodry—and the dweomer—had to come
before her and her kin.

Immediately around the Cerrmor harbor, of course, was the area
known as the Bilge, a tangle of narrow alleys, dirty shops, brothels,
and taverns, all catering to the sailors, or perhaps preying upon
them would be the better said. As much as Jill needed the kind of
information the Bilge could give her, she had no intention of
spending a night there. A safe distance upriver, in a bleak but
decent district of warehouses and longshoremen’s cottages, was
an inn called the Capstan that had a good reputation among silver
daggers, or at least, as good a reputation as any silver dagger inn
could possibly have. Jill stabled her horse in a smelly split-roof
shed, while the bald, squint-eyed innkeep scratched himself as he
watched without a move to help her.

“You’re cursed young to have the dagger.”

“What’s it to you?” Jill laid her hand on its hilt.

“Naught, naught. You can have a chamber to yourself if you like,
lad. Custom’s slow this time of year.”

“Done, then.”

The chamber was a tiny wedge of the second story, with warped
shutters over the window and a mattress on the floor. When she
kicked it out of the way, bedbugs swarmed and roiled. She
dumped her gear in the corner, then left, padlocking the door
behind her. The long narrow tavern room was dark and smoky, but
the tabletops and the straw on the floor were reasonably clean. Jill
swaggered in, trying to look as masculine as she could, and got
herself a tankard of dark. Sooner or later someone was bound to
realize that she was a lass, but she preferred it to be later. Since it
was right at the dinner hour, the tavern was crowded with sailors
spending their wages, a couple of wenches to help them at it,
traveling peddlers, and a sprinkling of indifferently dressed men
who were most likely thieves. The tavernman pointed to the hearth,
where a stout woman fussed over a kettle.

“Beef stew tonight, silver dagger.”

“Good.”

Jill saluted him with her tankard and strolled away to stand with her
back to the wall. She’d had only a few sips of ale when she heard
someone yelling out in the innyard. The tavernman ran to the
window.

“Ye gods, it’s some of the gwerbret’s men! They’re coming here.”

Several of the customers melted away out the back as a man in
mail threw open the front door. Three swordsmen, all dressed in
dark red brigga, marched in and collared the innkeep.

“Any more customers upstairs?” the leader said.

“Not that I know of. Here, what is all this?”

“We’re looking for someone, that’s all.”’ The swordsman turned to
study the crowd. “We’ve already swept the Bilge. You can wager
that we weren’t entirely welcome, but sweep it we did. Here, you,
silver dagger! Get over here.”

Jill walked over as slowly and as insolently as she dared.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Gilyn. What’s it to you?”

“Naught, scum, if that’s the stance you’re going to take. Do you
know a man named Rhodry of Aberwyn? He’s a member of your
band.”

“I do. Last time I saw him was up in Cerrgonney. What are you
looking for him for?”

“Naught that concerns you.” He started to turn away, then glanced
back with a conciliatory smile, “Here, I’ll tell you this, though. I
swear on my honor that we mean him good not ill. He’s not wanted
for a crime or suchlike. If you see him tell him that, will you? It’s
worth gold in his hand if he’ll just come to His Grace’s dun.”

“I will then.”

The gwerbret’s men stomped out again, and the tavern’s
customers gave a unison sigh of relief. The tavernman turned to
Jill.

“Do you believe what they said about your friend?”

“I do, at that, because Rhodry’s a strange kind of man.” She
paused for a sip of ale. “He’s never said a word about his past, and
silver daggers don’t pry into what a man may have done, but I’ll
wager he was noble-born.”

“Indeed?” His eyes widened. “A lord with the dagger?”

She noticed that a number of people had paused to listen.

“Well, he wasn’t a lord anymore, but he had the manners of the
noble-born, all bows and courtesy, and he knew bard lore, too. And
then there was the way he sat on a horse. You don’t ride that
splendidly unless your noble father’s riding master put you on a
pony when you were but three years old.”

“I wonder what he did to be shamed?” a wench said with a
melancholy sigh. “It sounds a sad tale. Was he handsome?”

“I suppose.” Jill shrugged as if indifferent. “I was more interested
in how well he fought.”

“No doubt. Men!” She flounced off again to wait on a pair of
staggering sailors in the corner.

Every one else smiled and drifted back to their tankards and talk.
Jill was honestly startled at how well they accepted her as a lad. As
she thought about it, she did have a dark voice for a woman in a
country where a clear tenor was the most highly prized voice for a
man, and no doubt they assumed her young, too, but she still was
vaguely troubled when she realized just how much her years on the
road had hardened her.

In a few minutes the tavernman and the wenches began passing
out bowls of stew, which turned out to be surprisingly good, as was
the bread served to sop it up with. When Jill found a place to sit
down and eat, she was joined by a gray-haired man she judged to
be a wandering peddler from his bent shoulders and the callus
across his forehead from a pack strap.

“Tell me somewhat, silver dagger,” he said, wasting no time in
pleasantries, “Is this Rhodry a typical Eldidd man, with black hair ad
dark blue eyes?”

“He is, and built narrow from shoulder to hip.”

“I think me I saw him two nights ago. He was in a tavern in the
crafters’ part of town. It stuck in my mind, like, because you don’t
often see a silver dagger doing his drinking among the potters and
blacksmiths.”

“True-spoken. Maybe you should tell that to one of the gwerbret’s
men.”

“Maybe so. They might pay for it, like. Our Rhodry was calling
himself Benoic, by the way. I wonder if he’s lying ill somewhere
and that’s why they can’t find him.”

“Ill? Did he look ill?”

“Not that I could see, but he was asking about herbmen. There
seemed to be a particular old man he wanted, too. Not just any
herbman would do. It had to be this one and his granddaughter.”

“Nevyn.”

“That was the name, truly. Strange sort of name, think I.”

“It is. Well, the granddaughter’s a pretty wench, you see.”

“Ah.” The peddler grinned and winked. “Well, maybe I’ll step out
after dinner and see if I can find one of the town wardens.”

“I would if I were you. If they’ve got the warband out as well as the
wardens, it must be important.”

With a nod, the peddler devoted himself to his stew. Feeling close
to despair, Jill ate mechanically, shoveling down food she no
longer wanted just for the look of the thing. It was clear that
Gwerbret Ladoic had ordered his men to search for Rhodry the
moment he’d received the letters from the king. They hadn’t found
him yet, and she was beginning to doubt that they would, simply
because the Bilge was the most logical place for him to be. For a
moment she toyed with old tales of thieves having a vast system of
tunnels under Cerrmor, then dismissed them as a gerthddyn’s
fancies. It also seemed clear that Rhodry had been certain that she
and Nevyn were in Cerrmor. Someone had lied to him, lured him
here—

All at once she broke off the thought and fixed her mind firmly on
her meal. She concentrated on chasing a bit of meat through the
gravy, forced herself to think of only that. For a moment, as she
was thinking about Rhodry, she’d felt the touch of another mind on
hers, just a light brush, but she could feel the cold, impersonal
malice in it. In a few seconds the mind moved on, leaving hers.
She laid the spoon down in her bowl. Appearances or not, she
found it impossible to eat another bite.

“Just going out back,” she said to the peddler.

He nodded and went on eating. No one else even looked up as he
headed out the back door in the direction of the privy.

Directly behind the inn stood a horse trough, where the water
caught the firelight spilling out the windows. She paused beside it,
idly trailing one hand in the water as if washing it off, and using the
dancing ripples to think of Salamander. Immediately she felt the
touch of his mind, but it was some minutes before he answered
her. She could see his image on the water only dimly.

“My apologies for taking so long. I was having dinner at the
gwerbret’s very table, and it took both some while and some fancy
courtesies before I could leave.”

“No matter. Some of the gwerbret’s men were just in the Capstan. I
take it that they haven’t found Rhodry yet.”

“They haven’t, curse them. Are you still certain he’s alive?”

“I am. It’s the one thing I have to cling to. But here, I contacted you
because I felt someone else touch my mind, someone who hated
me.”

“By the scaly underside of a dragon’s balls! Say no more about this
now, my turtledove. I’ll see you on the morrow. There are times
when words are safer than thoughts.”

With that, his image disappeared.

When Jill returned to the tavern room, she found the peddler gone,
but he came back in just a few minutes. With a broad grin he held
up two silver pieces to show the crowd.

“From one of the town wardens. He’s got a pouch of silver to pay
for any information about Rhodry of Aberwyn, lads. I’d say that
somewhat grand’s afoot.”

“Sounds like it’d be worth everyone’s while to remember what they
can about him,” Jill remarked in what she hoped was a casual tone
of voice. “My heart aches that I haven’t seen him in months.”

Everyone within earshot laughed their agreement and set to
considering the question. Unfortunately, no one there had a scrap
of information about Rhodry, and they agreed that lying to the
gwerbret’s men was unhealthy in the extreme. After a few hours Jill
went up to her chamber. For all her grief, she was so weary from
weeks of traveling that she fell asleep as soon as she lay down on
her blankets. Yet she dreamt of Rhodry. It seemed she heard him
calling out to her out of a desperate darkness.

Nevyn spent much of that night awake. He was sleeping on a cot in
Rhys’s chamber, where the slightest change in the gwerbret’s
labored breathing would wake him, because to a man as badly
injured or ill as Rhys was, the hours right before dawn are always
the most dangerous, when the astral tides of earth run low and
sluggishly. Although Rhys spent a better night than anyone had a
right to hope for, still Nevyn sat up, brooding over the low fire in the
hearth and using it to talk with other dweomermasters. He had set
men and women all over the kingdom to scrying, not for Rhodry,
which was futile, but for odd breaks and discrepancies in their
visions which might reveal an astral seal set over something that a
dark master wanted hidden. So far, no one had found a thing. If Jill
hadn’t been certain that Rhodry lived, Nevyn would have despaired
and thought him dead, but the sexual link between the pair was so
strong that Jill would have felt his death like the loss of part of
herself.

Toward dawn, when the tide of Aethyr came in, bringing fresh life
to astral and etheric plane both, Nevyn fell asleep for a few hours,
to be awakened by the servant come to help him bathe Rhys and
turn him in the bed.

“Does His Grace still live, good sir?”

“He does.” Nevyn got up and yawned, stretching like a cat. “Fill that
kettle at the hearth, will you? I have to brew his various medicines
fresh today.”

Once Rhys was tended, Nevyn left him to his wife’s care and went
down to the great hall. So late in the morning, it was mostly empty,
but a serving lass hurried out to the kitchen hut to fetch Nevyn
some breakfast He was eating porridge and ham at the honor table
when Cullyn strode in, glanced around, and came over to join him.
The serving lass brought Cullyn a tankard of ale, then retreated to
the other side of the hall.

“Have you had any news of Jill?” Cullyn said..

“Not since last night. I heard from Salamander that he was staying
with Gwerbret Ladoic, so I assume Jill is, too.”

Cullyn nodded, frowned into his tankard for a moment, then flicked
out a bit of straw with one finger and drank.

“I still don’t understand how Jill and Rhodry got separated,” Cullyn
said.

“No more do I.” Nevyn was thankful all over again that he’d
refrained from swearing never to tell a lie—a vow that pleased the
Lords of Wyrd, but which also made life unnecessarily difficult at
times. “Although I do have a bit more information. It seems that
Rhodry was asking around for me and Jill just before—well, before
whatever it is that’s happened to him. I’ll make a guess that
someone told him Jill had left him and headed to Cerrmor to find
me or suchlike.”

“It’d make sense. Then all they’d have to do was get him into the
Bilge. No one there would look twice if they knocked him on the
head or suchlike.”

“Just so. Well, I’ll be hearing from Salamander soon, I hope. I’ll tell
you the minute there’s any news.”

“My thanks. I’d be cursed grateful.”

While he finished his ale, Cullyn stared idly across the hall, then
suddenly smiled, just a quick twitch of his mouth that he hastily
stifled. When Nevyn followed the captain’s gaze, he saw Tevylla
entering the hall, shepherding Rhodda ahead of her.

“Truly, Captain, the nursemaid’s a good-looking woman.”

Cullyn shot him a murderous glance and devoted himself to his ale
until Tevylla had left the hall again.

As they sat together in a comfortable silence, Nevyn began to feel
profoundly nervous about having Perryn brought to Aberwyn. If
Cullyn ever found out what the young lord had done to his
daughter, Perryn would die in a very unpleasant way no matter what
Nevyn said about illnesses of the soul or suchlike. Yet lying about
such a grave matter was beyond even him. For all that he didn’t
mind bending the truth on occasion, he refused to spin himself a
web of half-truths that would choke him in the end. Since it would
be a long while before Perryn arrived, he dismissed the problem in
a fit of irritation. There were too many other troubles weighing on
his mind for him to worry over that one.

“So you’ll not be going to Cerrmor, then?” Cullyn said abruptly.

“I won’t. I simply can’t leave. Here’s the gwerbret’s life hanging by a
thread and greedy lords circling round the rhan like hounds around
a joint of meat on the table.”

“But what of Rhodry?”

“That’s the wound in our hearts, isn’t it? What of Rhodry? I’m afraid
we’ll have to trust your daughter to pull him out of this particular
trap. I think me she can do it, too, at least with Salamander there to
help her. You trained her well, Cullyn.”

“Did I, now? Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“So we will, so we will. I only hope it’s soon.”

There was something else that he could never tell Cullyn. Deep in
his mind, he knew that he was meant to stay in Aberwyn, not to
nurse the gwerbret and aid Lovyan, but because staying where he
was would undermine his enemies in a way that he could not
foresee.

There was a silversmith in Cerrmor who did business with the silver
daggers. Even though he couldn’t make the daggers themselves,
he was known for giving a fair price for battle loot and making
decent repairs to ordinary weapons. His shop was the smallest and
shabbiest on the street of the silversmiths, which ran down by the
river but a good ways north of the Bilge; yet for all the squalor of
the peeling wooden sign and filthy whitewash of the walls, when Jill
pushed open the door, a string of beautifully crafted silver bells
rang a sweet warning. She found herself in a narrow slice of the
round house and faced with another door in a stout wooden wall. In
a few moments, a stork-skinny bent-shouldered youngish man
came out through it.

“And what can I do for you, silver dagger? Got somewhat to sell?”

“I don’t, but I might be in the market to buy—information, that is.
Have the gwerbret’s men been in here, asking you about a man
named Rhodry of Aberwyn?”

“They have, and of course I’ve told them I never laid eyes on him.”

“You were lying, I take it.”

“Of course. He was in here not more than two nights ago, asking
me about herbmen. I recommended a good one that I know, and
he slipped out the back way. He knew that the wardens were on the
prowl after him.”

Jill swore under her breath.

“Here, good smith, if you see Rhodry again, for the love of the
gods, tell him to go to the gwerbret. He’s not been accused of any
crime, no matter what he thinks. Tell him that the woman he’s
looking for is under Ladoic’s protection.”

It was the smith’s turn for oaths.

“I would’ve told His Grace’s men if I’d known that! But Rhodry tells
me that he’s been accused of taking someone’s head, and cursed
if he’ll lose his own over it, so of course I lied for him.”

“Honorable of you.” Jill meant it quite sincerely. “But that’s torn it,
then. Here, don’t you think it’s passing strange that every man in the
rhan is looking for him and he hasn’t turned up?”

“He must have left, I suppose.”

“Maybe. Suppose you wanted to hire a couple of lads to get
someone out of the way. Where would you go in the Bilge?”

“I see what you mean.” The smith sucked his teeth for a few
moments while he thought. “How come you’re so interested in all
of this?”

“He’s a friend of mine. We rode on a couple of hires together. If
somewhat’s happened to him, I’ll want vengeance for it—any silver
dagger would.” She took two silver pieces out of the pouch
hanging from her belt. “I’ll pay for the information.”

“I won’t take your coin, because I don’t know anything for certain,
but I’ve heard that there’s a tavern in the Bilge called the Red Man.
Supposedly if you ask the right questions there, you can hire
anyone for anything.”

“And if you ask the wrong ones?”

The smith smiled and pantomimed running a knife across his
throat.

After she left the shop, Jill spent some time wandering the streets
while she planned out her visit to the Bilge. Even without the
smith’s warning, she knew quite well that no one simply barged into
the Bilge and started asking questions. She found a little open
space around a public well and sat down on a wooden bench to
think. Even the denizens of the Bilge were afraid of silver daggers,
who avenged any murdered member of their band. On the other
hand, if they thought her set to avenge Rhodry, they might well
eliminate her first and worry about other silver daggers later. But of
course Rhodry wasn’t dead. Suddenly she realized that she had a
move in this ugly game of gwyddbwcl: since he wasn’t dead, the
Bilge knew it, too. Once she let them know she knew, the rules
would change.

When she started for the Bilge, she took a detour to a
leatherworker’s shop that she’d noticed earlier. She found the
owner sitting cross-legged on a table, pieces of a saddlebag
around him as he stitched. In the corner of the room a dirty child of
three played with a pair of puppies, and from the back room came
the smell of cooking and the sound of a crying baby. The
craftsman glanced up.

“Ah, can I be of help to you, lad?”

“No doubt. I want to buy a jerkin.”

“Very well. I’ll measure you, and it’ll be about three days.”

“I need it now.”

The craftsman laid aside the piece he was working on; then slowly,
carefully, as if he were afraid she would draw and swing at any
moment, he got down from the table.

“I’ve no time to wait, hidesman.”

“Er, well and good, then, if you don’t demand a perfect fit. I’ve got
one I was making for the miller’s son, and he’s about your size.”

“Bring it out.”

When the craftsman went to the back, he swept up the child and
the puppies with him. In a few minutes he came back with the
heavy leather vest, which had metal studs all down the sides.
When she tried it on over her shirt, it was a little tight, but it would
do. She threw six silver coins, about twice what it was worth, onto
the table and strode out, leaving the craftsman shaking behind her.
She took the jerkin to a public privy and put it on under her shirt,
this time, lacing it tight to flatten her breasts. Although it chafed, it
would also protect her ribs against a casual knife. It was the best
protection she could get, since the gwerbret’s men frowned on
civilians wearing mail in the city streets. Then she went on to the
Bilge.

In the sunny morning the narrow, filthy streets were nearly
deserted. A gaggle of ragged children played at hurley with a bent
stick and a torn leather ball; a couple of women with market
baskets hurried past her on, their way to the fishmonger’s down at
the wharves. She saw one man, a white-haired beggar with no
hands, sunning himself in a doorway. She strolled over to the ex-
thief and dropped a silver piece in the wooden bowl beside him.

“Where’s the Red Man tavern?”

“That’s not a pleasant place, lad.”

“Do I look like a pleasant sort of man?”

He laughed, revealing brown stumps of broken teeth.

“Well, then, keep going along this here street until you come to a
tannery yard. The stink’ll guide you. Then go around the tannery.
You’ll see the Red Man’s sign down an alley to the left.”

As she walked on, Jill kept on a close guard. Here and there she
saw a leather drape move at a window, or a figure appear briefly at
an open door. She suspected that already the old thief had
pressed some child into service as a messenger and sent it to the
tavern with the news that a silver dagger was on his way, Even
though she was sweating under the heavy jerkin, she appreciated it
more than ever. If their enemies wanted to, they could murder her
here in the street without anyone bothering to interfere. She
wondered about Rhodry, if perhaps the gwerbret’s men had merely
been led right past some place where he’d been hidden. In this
tight-lipped little world, anything seemed possible.

To her surprise, the Red Man was clean, with newly white-ashed
walls and a well-swept cobbled yard around it. The sign hanging
out front showed a bright red giant wearing naught but enormous
erection as he stood on top of a hill with an uprooted tree in each
hand. The image was somehow annoying, a bawdry gone sour.
When she went inside, she found that the half-round tavern room
was also clean, with fresh straw on the floor and scrubbed tables.
All the shutters were closed, leaving the room dark except for the
firelight from the hearth, where a spitful of chickens were being
turned by a ragged scullery lad. Half a dozen men sat at one table;
the rest were empty. Near the hearth one fellow snored loudly in
the straw with a pair of dogs cuddled at his back.

The tavernman who came to greet her was Bardekian, a fleshy
black man whose face and arms were covered with old scars, all of
them long, thin cuts from some sort of sharp knife.

“We don’t get many silver daggers in here, lad.”

“I suppose you’re too good to be serving the likes of me.”

“Not too good, too cautious. You’re welcome to drink, but only a
little. Listen, silver dagger, I know your kind. Two tankards,
three—all is fine, no trouble. Then one more or suchlike, and
somewhat snaps. There is the fight, there is the blood on my nice
walls, there is the corpse on my clean floor. I serve you two
tankards, no more. Done?”

Jill noticed the men at the table listening, and their hands were near
their sword hilts. She gave them an insolent stare, then turned back
to the tavernman.

“Done. Give me a tankard of dark.”

Jill found a table where she could sit with her back to the wall and
made a mental note of the position of every window and door.
When the tavernman gave her the ale, she held up a silver piece.

“I’m looking for someone, someone who seems to have
disappeared.”

The tavernman’s eyes flicked this way and that. The men at the
other table leaned forward, listening.

“Someone else is looking for him, too,” she went on. “I’ll wager you
can guess who I mean.”

“Rhodry of Aberwyn?”

“Just that. I’ve got a score to settle with that lying little bastard. I
don’t give a pig’s fart why the gwerbret wants him. His Grace can
hang what’s left after I’m done with him, for all I care.”

The tavernman considered her shrewdly, then nodded, accepting
her tale.

“I am glad I am not this Rhodry with the likes of you after me. What
makes you think I know somewhat about him?”

“I’ll wager you know naught but the name of a man who knows
more.”

“Here, they look for this Rhodry everywhere and never find him. I
say he is dead. Forget him. You can’t bring a man back from the
dead to kill him a second time.”

“Dead?” Here was the moment she’d been counting on, and she
paused, giving him a twisted, ugly smile. “Come now, my friend.
We both know better than that. Word gets around.”

He hesitated, his dark face going a bit ashy in honest fear. A burly
brown-haired fellow at the other table got up, swinging himself free
of the bench, and strolled over, his narrowed eyes revealing
nothing of what he might have been thinking. He had the biggest
hands that Jill had ever seen on a man, enormous bear paws like
clubs.

“Just how much is your hatred worth, silver dagger?”

“Hard coin.”

Smiling a little, he sat down and took the silver piece she offered
him.

“I had naught to do with getting him away, but I had a chance at the
job, and I saw who was doing the hiring.”

“I like a man who doesn’t mince words.” She got out two more
coins and flipped him one. “You’ll get the other at the end of the
tale.”

“Well and good, then. Now here, you’re right enough. There never
was any question of killing him, far as I could tell. I’ve got a friend
who’s made somewhat of himself, risen in the world, like. He’s a
footman for one of the rich merchants up on the cliffs, see, a man
who doesn’t fancy being jumped in the street one dark night, so my
friend, he goes around with him. And his master’s rich friends know
that my friend is always useful for a bit or rough work, like
convincing a man who owes them coin to pay up. So my friend
comes in here, oh, three nights ago, it was, and saying that he’s
maybe got a job for us. A business acquaintance of his master’s
wants a word with a certain silver dagger, and he’ll pay if we take
this lad on the road and bring him somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, because we never did it.” He leaned closer in garlic-
breathed sincerity. “If you’d have seen this Briddyn, you wouldn’t
have taken a copper from him, either. He was this big man, not
paunchy, but all porky-like, and he had this smooth little face like a
lad’s, and this slick black hair and beard, like it was greased with
lard, it was that slick.”

“Indeed? Did you notice whether his hands were smooth, too?”

“I did, and they were. I can still see him, like, in my mind.” He
shuddered slightly. “In his beard he had this clip like lasses put in
their hair, but it was a silver lizard with a butterfly in its mouth. There
was somewhat about him that creeped my flesh, and it wasn’t just
his taste in jewelry, neither.”

“Was he a Bardek man?”

“He might have been, but then again, he might have been a
Deverry man with some Bardek blood in his clan. He was brownish,
sort of, but it might have been just a lot of sun. So anyway, this
Briddyn offers us a lot of coin, but it wasn’t near half enough, not
for meddling with a silver dagger. When we turned him down, I was
blasted close to fouling my brigga. What if he takes it amiss, like?
think I. I could tell my friend was thinking the same. Now, I don’t
know what he could’ve done to us, but he just took us that way.
Creeped my flesh, he did.”

Jill considered him and his story both over a sip of ale. Although
she was inclined to think every inhabitant of the Bilge a liar, she
doubted very much that a man like him had the imagination to think
up so detailed and strange a description of this Briddyn fellow.
When she looked at the other men, listening carefully at their table,
she realized that her informant’s little tale had made them uneasy,
too. Yet, something simply smelled wrong. She slid over the last
silver piece.

“My thanks. Now, this Briddyn was staying at the Golden Dragon
Inn, but I’ll wager he’s long gone by now.”

“No doubt.”

In one fluid motion she drew her dagger with her right hand and
grabbed his shirt with the left, dragging him half onto the table.
Except for one slight shudder, he went perfectly still, staring into
her eyes like a rat mesmerized by a ferret. He apparently could tell
that she wanted to kill him just for the satisfaction of seeing blood
run.

“Listen to me carefully, or you die. The first thing you said to me
was this: ‘I had naught to do with getting him away.’ Getting him
away where? You know more than you’re telling.”

He whimpered then, and threw a desperate look to the others
sitting at their table. None of them moved; one even made an
ostentatious show of drinking from his tankard, as if naught in the
world troubled him at that moment.

“You whoreson scum,” she went on. “I came here willing to pay
good coin for what you know, and you hold out on me. Has the
Bilge fallen on evil times? A man used to be able to buy what he
wanted here.” She laughed, a little mutter that was utterly crazed,
and let him go with a shove that had him reeling in his chair.
“Answer me. Get him away where?”

“I don’t truly know.” The fellow was whining like a child. “I don’t.
Please believe me. All I know is that Briddyn said that once we had
him, he’d be taken away. So we didn’t have to worry, like, about
having to kill him or suchlike.”

There was more—she knew it—but the others were beginning to
get restless, and there were, after all, five of them as well as her
informant. Jill rose, keeping the dagger in hand.

“You in the blue brigga! Get your hand away from that throwing
dagger, or I’ll nail you with mine.”

With an oddly good-natured grin he complied, settling down again
on the bench. The tavernman stepped forward.

“Get out, silver dagger. Get out of my tavern now. You have what
answer you get. No one knows what happened to Rhodry. Briddyn
must have gotten him, and after that, no one knows. Now get out.”

“Well and good, then. I will. Oh, I believe you well enough. Who
knows where the hawks fly, huh?”

She’d said it just as an idle chance, a random bit of bait, but the
trap sprung closed fast. As the blood drained from his face, his
dark skin turned as gray and sickly as dirty snow.

“I said get out.” He could barely whisper. “Get out before you die.”

The Deverry men watched in sincere puzzlement at his terror. Jill
stepped closer, raising the dagger, and let herself laugh, that same
crazed chortle, wailing higher and higher until he sank to his knees
in the straw.

“Here!” One of the others rose to his feet. “What are you doing to
our Araelo?”

“Leave him alone!” The tavernman was screaming now. “Leave
him alone! Get out! All of you!” Then he burst into tears, dropping
his face into his hands.

The men sat as if turned to stone. Jill stopped laughing cold,
sheathed the dagger, and walked out. It took all her will, but she left
slowly, calmly, and strolled down the middle of the street for about
a hundred yards. When she glanced back, she saw that the door of
the Red Man was closed—and bolted on the inside, too, she’d
wager. She let out her breath in a long sigh and felt a fear-cold
sweat running down her back and breasts under the leather jerkin.
It was time to get out of the Bilge. Luck had brought her some
important information, and she wanted to live long enough to tell
Salamander.

Although her flesh creeped with nerves the whole way, Jill left the
Bilge without incident and asked one of the town wardens the way
to the Golden Dragon Inn. It turned out to be near the west gate, on
the far side of the river, not far from the gwerbret’s dun. Bold as
brass, they are, she thought to herself. As she crossed the white
stone bridge that arched over the river, she felt Salamander’s mind
tug at hers. She paused to lean over the rail and look down at the
swift-flowing river. Although she failed to see his image, she could
hear his thoughts in her mind and answer back.

“Jill, by the gods! I was trying to scry you out, and I saw you in the
Bilge! You shouldn’t have gone there alone.”

“I did, and I lived, didn’t I? I’ve got some horrible news, but I doubt
me if I should tell you this way.”

“It’s time for me to ‘hire’ you anyway. I’ve moved into the Golden
Dragon Inn.”

“I’ll be round straightaway.”

As she went on, she was thinking that Briddyn must have a goodly
amount of coin, if he shared Salamander’s taste in inns. She turned
out to be right, because the Golden Dragon was a splendid three-
story building in the Bardekian style—that is, a long rectangular
plan with a curved roof like a ship turned upside down. At either
end, set into the curving roof beams, were enormous wooden
statues of some god or other with his hands raised in blessing.
Before she went in, Jill circled the place, noticing how the lovely
garden in the front became a mucky innyard in back, the dung heap
and the well too close together for such an expensive place. As
she loitered there, a young lass in a dirty apron came out the back
with a pair of water buckets. When Jill went over, the lass wrinkled
her nose.

“Get along, silver dagger. I’m not the kind of lass that would be
interested in the likes of you.”

“You’re not to my taste anyway,” Jill said, suppressing a smile. “All
I want is a bit of information about one of the guests here and I’ll
pay for it.”

The lass considered, torn between greed and fear of her
employer. When Jill held up a silver piece, the greed won.

“Who was this guest?”

“A merchant named Briddyn.”

“Oh, him!” She wrinkled her nose again. “I remember him well
enough, my thanks, and a nasty lot he was. Always complaining,
naught suited him, not the sheets, not the ale, not the wretched pot
to piss in, I swear it. Thanks be to the gods that he left! I’d have
gone daft if I’d had to wait upon him any longer.”

“I see.” Jill handed over the coin. “Do you know what he trafficked
in?”

“Cloth. He rode in with a big caravan, and I heard the stablemen
talking, saying that it’s a good thing his bales were light and easy to
unload, because the bastard didn’t tip. And he had one special
bale of cloth in his chamber. He told me that if I touched it, he’d
slap me about, as if I’d be interested in his nasty cloth.”

“Did he have any visitors?”

“I never saw a one, but who would go visiting a nasty swine like
that? When he left, he said he was going north to Dun Deverry.
Huh—as if swine like that belonged in the king’s own city!”

Quite puzzled, Jill went on her way. It was the most peculiar turn so
far, she decided; mysterious strangers bent on doing harm to
someone normally don’t make such nuisances of themselves that
every servant remembers them. As soon as she opened the front
door of the inn, the innkeep and a beefy young man ran across the
tavern room to bar her way.

“No silver daggers in my inn! Try the Capstan, lad.”

“One of your guests summoned me here, pork gut. Salamander
the gerthddyn said he had a hire for me.”

When the innkeep snarled under his breath, she laid her hand on
her sword hilt. He stepped back sharply.

“I’ll send a lad up to ask, silver dagger.” His voice shook badly.
“But you’d best be telling the truth, or I’ll have the wardens on you.”

Jill crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him until the
lad returned with the news that Salamander did indeed want a silver
dagger for a bodyguard. Muttering under his breath about possible
thievery, the innkeep took her up himself to the chamber, which
was on the top floor, far above the stink of the streets. When
Salamander opened the door, he was resplendent in a brigga of
soft blue wool, a shirt stiff with floral embroidery, and a tooled belt
of red leather.

“Ah, my thanks, good innkeep. You have brought me a most highly
recommended silver dagger, who, though young, is known for
deeds of derring-do and blood and guts, such as eating the livers
out of bandits and the hearts out of thieves.”

“You do go on so, sir! Will you be honoring us with a tale this
evening?”

“Mayhap, mayhap. Come in, Gilyn. Let us discuss this hire.”

It turned out that he’d rented not a chamber but an entire suite,
paneled in dark wood and furnished with a cushioned chair, a
carved table, and a long purple Bardek divan as well as a bed in a
separate room.

“You don’t stint yourself, do you?” Jill said.

“And why should I?” Salamander poured her a goblet of pale mead
from a glass flagon. “Now, I’ll wager that you can guess that the
gwerbret hasn’t found Rhodry.”

“He’s never going to.”

Salamander glanced up, the mead glass still in his hand, his lips
half parted as he stared at her in sudden fear.

“Rhodry’s in the hands of the Hawks of the Brotherhood.”

For a long moment the gerthddyn never moved or spoke. It
seemed, indeed, that he’d stopped breathing until at last he
whispered out his words.

“Oh ye gods, not that! Are you certain?”

“The man who was hunting for him had handled so much arsenic
that his skin and hair were turned slick. When I just barely
mentioned the work ‘hawk’ the man I was talking to went all
hysterical on me.” She slammed her fist on the table so hard that
toe flagon jiggled and spilled. “I know what the Hawks do to men
they get their hands on. If they’ve put Rhodry to torture, they’re
going to die. One man for every mark they give him. I swear it. I’ll
them down like ferrets after rats. One man for every mark.”

The she began to laugh, a maddened chuckle that took over her
voice.

“Jill! Stop it! By the gods!”

She tossed her head and went on laughing. He grabbed her by the
shoulders, shook her, yelled at her, then finally slammed her
against the wall. The laughter stopped. When she saw the grief in
his smoky-gray eyes, she wondered at herself for not being able to
weep. She shook free of his hands and went to the window to look
down at the narrow garden. It seemed painfully unjust that the sun
should be so bright when her Rhodry was in the hands of
darkness. Then she heard Salamander sob and spun around to
see tears running down his face as he stood there limply, his
hands at his sides. The contrast between his elegant clothing and
his helpless pain made him look like a child in his father’s finery.
Unsure of what to say, she went over and laid a tentative hand on
his shoulder.

“You forget he’s my brother.”

“I do, at that. Forgive me?”

He nodded, looked away, still weeping, his shoulders shaking, and
yet he made no sound. Jill realized that she could say naught to
him that would be a right thing.

“I’m going to the Capstan to get my gear.”

He nodded to show that he’d heard, but he never looked at her.

During the long walk back to the Capstan, Jill felt as exhausted as if
she’d fought a long battle, as drained as if she’d found Rhodry
dead. She realized, then, that she was indeed thinking of him as
being as good as dead, and that she could never mourn until she
avenged him. If they did torture him to death, she swore that her
vengeance would be a long thing, a slow, patient hunt with many a
kill to its credit. So the Hawks had dweomer, did they? So did she,
and she would use it to the full if she had to. When she looked up
at the sky, it was a brilliant, swelling blue; the cobbles on the street
seemed to glow from within. It was the power rising within her
along the channel that Perryn’s unwitting dweomer had carved out
by accident, and she knew then that she could summon it when
she needed it. Yet it would be dangerous: she was as untrained
and unknowing as Perryn was; like him, she would be risking
madness or even some slow death. She no longer cared. All that
counted now was vengeance.

Once she collected her horse and gear, as a precaution she took
the long way back to the Golden Dragon, sticking to the wider
boulevards where she could ride rather than leading her horse
down narrow streets. She took a turn by the harbor, where the
merchantmen were drawn up at pier after pier to load the last of the
summer’s goods. In another month or so, the seas would be
impassable, and already the water was a darker, colder blue. Here
and there she saw Bardek men engrossed in conversations with
the foremen of the longshore crews, while great bales of cargo
marched down the gangplanks on the backs of men. You can get a
cursed lot in one of those ships, she idly thought to herself.

“Gods!”

She kicked her horse to a jog and rushed back to the inn, caution
forgotten.

She found Salamander perfectly calm, or rather, a little too calm,
just as she was, his eye more steel than smoke, his voice brittle.
He waved at a pair of full goblets on the table.

“We never drank the mead I poured. I suggest we do so. A
pledge, I was thinking.”

“Splendid idea. Tell me the elven word for vengeance, will you?
We should swear in both our tongues.”

“Anadelonbrin. Swift-striking hatred.”

“Done, then. Anadelonbrin!”

“Vengeance!” And he tossed back his head and howled like a wolf
on the coldest night in winter. “That’s to summon the death wolves,
my turtledove, the vengeance wolves of the goddess of the Dark
Sun. Do you know Her? I think me you do, but by another name,
because I can see Her eyes look out of yours at times. The elven
seers teach that there are two suns, a pair of twin sisters. One is
the bright sun that we see in the sky; the other is on the other side
of the world. The bright sister gives life, and the dark, need I say,
death.”

“Then may Her wolves ever run before us.”

They touched goblets and drank the mead together.

Salamander had, of course, contacted Nevyn through the fire and
told him of Jill’s discovery. For some hours that afternoon, Nevyn
could do little but pace back and forth in the sickroom and let his
rioting emotions spend themselves. Loathing, grief, fury—they all
ran together and made him feel like screaming out curses on the
gods and the Great Ones alike, that they would let such a thing
happen. That Rhodry would die was horrible enough; that he would
die slowly at the hands of perverted men was heart-wrenching. As
always, he berated himself as well. Surely there must have been
some warning he’d overlooked, something he could have done?
Every time he looked at Rhys, fighting for his life, gasping for every
painful breath he drew, his highly trained imagination would
threaten him with pictures of Rhodry in the hands of the Hawks.
Over and over again he banished those thoughts by stamping them
with the image of a flaming pentagram until at last his mind was still.

Then, finally, he could think. Although his first impulse was to rush
to Cerrmor, not only did he have pressing reasons to stay where
he was, but also the journey would simply take too much time. By
the time he reached Cerrmor, Jill and Salamander might well be a
hundred miles away. Besides, if the enemy had left by water, as
certainly seemed the case, they and their victim were doubtless
already long gone. It made perfect sense: although they could
never get an unconscious man past the harbor guards and
customs officers in Cerrmor itself, nothing would be easier than to
get him out of the city in a wagon, load him onto a coastal vessel,
and take him to some less heavily guarded port, where . . . where
what? That ‘what’ puzzled Nevyn mightily. If the Hawks had simply
wanted to torture him to death or even kill him quickly, why hadn’t
they taken him on the long road down to Cerrmor or even stayed in
the Bilge, where torturing a man to death was considered light
entertainment and no matter for the gwerbret’s men? Why all this
business with ships and this slow game of gwyddbwcl that offered
them chances to lose at every turn? And above all, who under the
god-cursed sky had hired them in the first place?

As baffled as a cornered bear, he shook his head and growled
aloud, then resumed his pacing. At least this water journey
explained why scrying could find no trace of Rhodry. If they were
far enough from land, the dark masters had no need of setting
seals over their victim, because not even the greatest master of
dweomer can scry over a large body of water, and especially not
the ocean. The vast outpourings and upheavals of etheric force
disrupt the images, as well as shielding whoever is trying to hide,
rather as if someone were trying to use normal sight to peer
through thick fog or smoke. As long as the Hawks kept Rhodry
some miles out to sea, no dweomer in the world could find him.

“I suppose they’re somehow toying with us,” he remarked to the fat
yellow gnome.

The gnome frowned in thought, then hopped up onto a wooden
chest and began to pick its toes.

“We do have one hope,” Nevyn went on. “They may be planning on
ransoming him or suchlike. If that’s true, then they’ll keep their foul
hands off him, at least until they open the negotiations.”

The gnome turned its head, looked at him, and nodded to show it
understood. Since this particular little creature had hung around
him for many years, it was beginning to develop the rudiments of a
mind. All at once it stiffened, then jumped to its feet and pointed at
the door. Just as Nevyn turned there was a knock, and a page
came in.

“My lady Lovyan wishes to know if you’re free, sir. Talidd of
Belglaedd has just turned up at our door.”

“Then fetch the gwerbret’s lady to keep watch on her husband, and
I’ll go down as soon as she arrives.”

Nevyn muttered a few choice curses under his breath, then steeled
himself to face the scheming lord.

When he came into the great hall, he saw, much to his relief, that
Talidd wasn’t the only guest at the table of honor. Lord Sligyn was
there, sitting at the tieryn’s right hand, swilling ale and glaring at
Talidd over the tankard. A stout, red-faced man in his mid-thirties,
with a thick pair of blond mustaches, Sligyn rose with a bellow in
Nevyn’s general direction.

“There you are, herbman! Come and talk some sense into this
pigheaded fool of a noble lord.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Talidd was on his feet in an instant.

“You blasted well should, eh? Spreading all this nonsense about
our Rhodry.”

Talidd opened his mouth, glanced at Lovyan, and shut it again.
Nevyn went cold, wondering if Talidd had somehow discovered the
secret of Rhodry’s parentage. Dimly he was aware that across the
hall, Cullyn had gotten up and taken a few steps their way.

“Will you both please sit down?” Lovyan said, and there was steel
in her voice. “What nonsense, Sligyn?”

“That the lad’s dead.” Sligyn took his place on the bench again.
Don’t you try to deny it, either, Talidd. Heard you myself, eh?
Nattering away at that tourney Peredyr gave. Pile of . . . uh,
nonsense.”

Talidd winced and sat down fast, scrupulously avoiding Lovyan’s
eye.

“Your Grace, forgive me if I distress you. I had a bit much ale that
day, and I was only wondering why the king’s riders couldn’t find
the lad if he were still alive.”

Sligyn started to blurt out an angry contradiction, but Nevyn laid a
heavy hand on his shoulder to make him hold his tongue.

“I take no offense, my lord.” Lovyan sounded a bit weary and
nothing more. “I’ve often wondered the same thing myself. Nevyn,
do sit down! I can’t stand having you all hovering about.”

“My apologies, Your Grace.” He took a seat next to Sligyn. “As far
as anyone can tell, Rhodry’s actively hiding from the king’s guard. I
have no idea why.”

An odd look flickered on Talidd’s face, a hint of contempt, hastily
stifled. Sligyn slammed his tankard down on the table and leaned
forward.

“Out with it, man,” Sligyn snarled. “I’ve had enough of your foul
sneers and mincing words. Out with it!”

Talidd’s face reddened.

“I was merely wondering, Lord Sligyn, just why he doesn’t want to
be found. He’s been a silver dagger for years now, hasn’t he?
Makes you wonder what he’s done.”

Slowly and deliberately Sligyn got to his feet.

“Are you insulting my lady’s son and her right here to see it?”

“I’m not.” Talidd rose to face him. “I’m merely speaking a
wondering.”

Before Lovyan could intervene Cullyn was there, striding over and
stepping between the lords with respectful bobs of bows to both of
them.

“My lord Sligyn, my apologies, but if anyone’s going to be taking
umbrage at insults for my lady’s sake, I will. That’s my duty as her
captain, after all.”

Talidd went white and sat down rather fast.

“If Your Grace will forgive me, I fear me I forgot myself. The
unsettled state of the rhan is beginning to wear on us all.”

“So it is.” Lovyan favored him with a small nod. “I promise you that
as soon as we receive news of Rhodry, the Council of Electors
shall have it, too.”

“My humble thanks, Your Grace.”

Although Talidd kept his speech pleasant and his visit very brief,
Nevyn found himself wondering about the lord. Why was he so
sure that Rhodry was dead? Could it be that he’d had something to
do with his kidnapping?

“Curse them all!” Salamander said. “May their teeth rot first, then
their noses. May their eyes fill with phlegm, and their ears with a
ringing. May their breathing slacken, and their hearts tremble within
them. May their testicles harden, and their manhood soften.”

“And is that what you’ve been brooding with your breakfast?” Jill
said. “I thought a curse was a wrong thing for a dweomerman to
work.”

“It would be if it had any power behind it. Alas, my curses are but
words, idle, empty, and most meaningless, except as a way to
relieve my most overwrought and troubled heart.” He got up from
the table and stalked over to the window. “Curse this fog, too! May
it shrivel, may it vanish, may it turn to naught but air!”

Jill looked up from her porridge to see the fog swirling dark outside
the window, as if defying Salamander’s curse.

“What’s so wrong about the fog?” she said.

“None of the coasters will sail in it, and we need a ship.”

“We do?”

“We do. While you were sleeping, my turtledove, I was considering
wiles and schemes. Your success in the Bilge gave me an idea, or
to be precise and thorough, many ideas, of which I have rejected
most.” He turned, perching on the sill. “Obviously we are meant to
chase after this Briddyn. If the Hawks truly wanted to hide from us,
we would’ve discovered naught, no matter how badly you terrified
the entire Bilge. Instead they’ve left clues so plain that even the
gwerbret’s men could have followed them. So, now, we are left
with two choices, to wit, one: Briddyn is a false trail, meant to throw
us off the scent; or two: he is the bait to lure us into a trap. Instinct
tells me it’s the latter.”

“Oho! But what if we follow the trail, then avoid the trap?”

“My thoughts exactly. I suspect that they’re underestimating us. For
all I know, they could well realize that I have dweomer, but I’ll wager
my last copper that they don’t know you do. I’m also sure they don’t
know how well you can swing that sword.”

“Good. It’ll gladden my heart to show them.”

“No doubt. I . . . ” He broke off at a knock at the chamber door.

When Jill opened it, she found a sleepy lad of about six.

“My apologies, sir, but there’s a man outside, and he says he wants
to talk with you, and Da wouldn’t let him just come up, so he sent
me, and I’m supposed to ask you if he can come up.”

“Indeed? What’s he like?”

“He’s a Bardek man, and he’s all covered with scars, and he smells
funny.”

Smells funny? she thought to herself; what, by the hells? She gave
the lad a copper and told him to bring the fellow up. In a few
minutes the tavernman from the Red Man arrived at the door. He
did indeed smell, but of fear, not of dirt or perfume, the particular
reeking sharpness that seeps into a man’s sweat when he’s
terrified. As soon as the door closed behind him, he threw himself
at Jill’s feet.

“Kill me now! Do not make we wait any more, I beg you. All night I
wait, and the waiting drives me mad.”

Utterly confused, Jill hooked her thumbs in her sword belt and
arranged a cruel smile in an attempt to play for time, but
Salamander seemed to understand. He strolled over from the
window and stared into the taverner’s eyes, while the man gasped
for breath out of sheer anxiety.

“I might enjoy killing you,” the gerthddyn said in an offhand way.
“But perhaps there’s no need.”

“But I told! I let out Briddyn’s name. Never did I realize that you
were testing me.”

When Salamander chuckled, an unpleasant sort of laugh, Jill
suddenly understood: the tavernman thought they were Hawks.

“Naught of the sort,” she broke in. “The Brotherhood is just that, a
band of brothers. Have you even known brothers who weren’t all
rivals in their hearts? Have you ever met an elder brother who
willingly shared his sweetmeats with a younger? If you did, you
knew a rare and holy man in the making.”

Color ebbed back into the tavernman’s face.

“I see. So you truly do want this Rhodry . . . ”

“For reasons of our own, dog!” Salamander kicked him in the
stomach hard enough to make him grunt. “But you didn’t tell him
everything you knew, did you? Tell me now, or I’ll ensorcel you and
make you jump off a pier and drown yourself.”

Wiping his mouth repeatedly on the back of his hand, he nodded
his agreement, then swallowed heavily and finally spoke.

“They are taking him to Slaith. I don’t know why. But I heard Briddyn
mention somewhat about Slaith to his two companions.”

Although the name meant nothing to Jill, Salamander grunted in
surprised recognition.

“I should have guessed that,” he said. “Well and good, dog. Slink
back to your kennel. But if you mention us to anyone . . . ”

“Never! I swear it on the gods of both our peoples!”

Trembling, sweating in great drops, he scrambled to his feet and
shamelessly ran for the door. As Jill shut it after him, she heard him
pounding down the corridor.

“Slaith, is it?” Salamander said in a grim voice. “A bad omen, little
pigeon, a wretched bad omen indeed.”

“Where is it? I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised, seeing as few ever have. But I must say, you’ve
certainly put the fear of demonhood into that fellow’s craven heart.
What am I traveling with, a poisonous snake?”

“Let’s hope so. They always say that vipers are immune to venom
themselves.” She paused, struck by a sudden thought. “But I
wonder if that fellow sees Hawks everywhere because he fell foul
of them once. Those scars . . . ”

“Oh, not that. I forget you don’t know much about Bardek. He was
no doubt a knife fighter. It’s a sport there, you see. You have the
knife in one hand, and around the other arm is this padded sleeve
you use like a shield. The man who scores the first cut wins. The
rich folk there have their favorites, and they shower them with gifts
and suchlike. That’s doubtless how our friend got the coin for his
tavern, but seeing as it’s in the Bilge, he must not have been truly
successful, or—”

“Oh ye gods, I don’t give a pig’s fart! Do you have to babble on
about everything?”

“Well, actually, I do, because it relieves my feelings and makes me
sound like a fool, which is exactly what I want our enemies to think
me. Who’ll take a fool and a viper seriously?”

“Done, then. You babble, and I’ll hiss.”

“And it’s time I did some babbling down in the harbor. We want to
book a passage to Dun Mannanan. It’s faster than riding the whole
way, and we can buy horses there for the final journey.”

“But where are we going?”

“Slaith, of course. Ah, my pretty little turtledove, a most peculiar
surprise lies in store for you.”

Since sending one lone prisoner on remand to Aberwyn was low in
the royal priorities, Perryn rotted in the king’s jail for several days,
each one more tedious than the last. With nothing to do but sleep
and plait bits of straw into little patterns, he was almost glad when
Madoc came one morning and announced that he’d be leaving that
very afternoon.

“There’s a galley going down to Cerrmor with dispatches, and they
have room for a horse thief. From there I’m farming you out on a
merchant vessel. I wouldn’t advise trying to escape. The master of
the ship is a formidable man.”

“Oh, er, ah, I wouldn’t worry about that. I can’t swim.”

“Good. Now, when you get to Aberwyn, you be honest with my
uncle, and he’ll see what he can do about saving your neck.”

“I suppose I should thank you, but somehow I can’t find it in my
heart.”

Much to his surprise, Madoc laughed at that with genuine good
humor, then took his leave.

The trip downriver was fast and smooth, the galley reaching
Cerrmor just as Jill and Salamander were leaving it. While they
were handing him over to the gwerbret’s men, Perryn felt her
presence, then lost the track almost immediately. He was hustled
up to Gwerbret Ladoic’s dun, where he spent a miserable night in a
tiny cell turned cold and damp by the thick Cerrmor fog. In the
morning, two of the gwerbret’s riders came for him, tied his hands
behind his back, and marched him lockstep down to the harbor
while his every joint ached and complained. Down at the end of a
long pier was a big Bardek merchantman, lateen-rigged and riding
low in the water. Waiting at the gangplank was one of the biggest
men Perryn had ever seen.

Close to seven feet tall, he had enormously muscled arms and
shoulders, and his skin was so dark that it seemed pitch-black with
bluish highlights. His presence, too, was as formidable as Madoc
had called him; in fact, the cold, calm look in his eyes reminded
Perryn of the equerry.

“This is the royal prisoner?” His voice was so dark and deep that it
seemed to rumble across the pier like a rolled barrel.

“He is, Master Elaeno,” said one of the guards. “Not much to look
at, is he?”

“Well, if Lord Madoc wants to buy a passage to Aberwyn for a
stoat, I shan’t argue. Let’s have him aboard.”

Elaeno grabbed Perryn’s shirt with one massive hand and lifted
him a few feet off the ground.

“You give me any trouble, and I’ll have you flogged. Understand?”

Perryn squeaked out an answer that passed for “I do.” Elaeno
lifted him right up over the side and dumped him onto the deck,
then signaled to a pair of sailors as dark and huge as he was.

“Put him down in the hold, but see that he’s properly fed and gets
clean water on the trip.”

Although it was decent of the ship’s master to be concerned about
feeding his prisoner, it was also a waste of time. As soon as the
ship left the harbor and hit the open sea, Perryn’s stomach
decided to turn itself inside out. As the seasickness washed over
him in rhythmic waves, he lay on his straw pallet, moaned, and
wished he were dead. Every now and then one of the sailors would
come see how he fared, but for the entire thirty-hour journey, the
answer was always the same. He would look at them with rheumy
eyes and beg them to hang him and have done with it. When the
ship finally made port in Aberwyn, they had to carry him off.

Lying on the pier was like reaching paradise. Perryn clung to the
rough, dirty wood with both arms and considered kissing it as the
nippy sea air cleared his head of the last of the nausea. By the time
men came down from the gwerbret’s dun with a cart, Perryn felt
almost cheerful. Even being shut in another cell couldn’t spoil his
good humor. The straw may have been dirty, but it covered a floor
of real dirt on solid land.

Yet his good mood evaporated when he realized that he was cold
and getting colder. The day was gray with high fog, and a brisk
wind blew in the barred window. He had no blanket, not even a
cloak. Although he huddled into a corner and spread some straw
over his legs, he was shivering uncontrollably in a few minutes. By
the time he heard someone coming to his door, about half an hour
later, he was sneezing as well. The door swung back to reveal an
old man, tall, white-haired, and dressed in plain gray brigga and a
shirt embroidered with red lions at the yokes. Just as the fellow
started to speak, Perryn had a fit of cramps, or so he thought of it.
He felt as if a number of invisible cats had leapt upon him and were
clawing at him, so deeply and painfully that he yelped and
squirmed.

“Stop that!” the old man said. “All of you—stop that right now!”

When Perryn obediently went still, the pains stopped, leaving to
wonder why the old man had addressed him as “all of you.”

“My apologies, lad. My name is Nevyn, and I’m Madoc’s uncle.”

“Are you a sorcerer, too?”

“I am, and you’d best do exactly what I say, or . . . or I’ll turn into a
frog! Now come along. I can see by looking at you that you’re very
ill, and I have the regent’s permission to keep you in a chamber
under guard rather than out here.”

Perryn sneezed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, then got up,
brushing away the straw and wondering what it would be like to hop
through a marsh all his life. When he happened to catch Nevyn’s
eye, the old man’s glance struck through his very soul, pinning him
to some invisible wall while the dweomerman rummaged through
his mind at leisure. At last Nevyn released him with a toss of his
head.

“You’re a puzzle and a half, truly. I can see why Madoc sent you
along to me. You’re also close to death. Do you realize that?”

“It’s just a chill, my lord. I must’ve gotten it on that beastly ship.”

“I don’t mean the chill. Well, come along.”

As they crossed the ward, Perryn glanced up at the tall broch
complex and noticed that the towers seemed to be swaying back
and forth. Only then did he realize that he was burning with fever.
Nevyn had to help him climb up the staircase to a small chamber in
one of the half-brochs. Perryn was shocked at the old man’s
strength as he hauled him through the door and lifted him bodily
onto the narrow bed.

“Get those boots off, lad, while I light a fire.”

The effort was so tiring that he barely had the strength to get under
the blankets. He was just drifting off to sleep when Elaeno, the
shipmaster, came into the room, but tired as he was, no amount of
talk could keep him awake.

“He isn’t much, is he?” Nevyn said.

“That’s what I said when I first saw him.” Elaeno shook his head in
a mild bafflement. “Of course, being seasick for days never helped
a man’s good looks.”

“He was badly beaten recently, too. You can see the missing tooth
and the fresh scars and suchlike. Salamander tells me that our
Rhodry caught him on the road.”

“I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“So am I. Salamander had no idea why Rhodry didn’t kill him, and
neither do I. Ah well, he is alive and our puzzle to untangle as well.
Take a look at his aura.”

Cocking his head to one side, Elaeno let his eyes go slightly out of
focus as he examined the area around the sleeping Perryn.

“That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” the Bardekian said at
last. “The color’s all wrong, and all the inner Stars are out of
balance, too. Do you truly think he’s a human being?”

“What? What else would he be?”

“I have no idea. It’s just that I’ve never seen a human with an aura
like that in my life, nor an elf or dwarf either.”

“Now that’s true-spoken, and well worth a little thought. If he’s
some sort of alien soul trapped in a human body, it would explain a
great many things. Unfortunately, we may never find out the truth.
He’s very ill.”

“Do you think you can save him?”

“I don’t know. I feel duty-bound to try, in spite of what he did to Jill.
He’s suffering, after all, and besides, it strikes me that we should
find out what we can about this strange being. But ye gods, all I
need now is another burden.”

“I was thinking about that. We could winter over here if you need
my help. I can send messages to my wife on another ship.”

Nevyn started to speak, then paused, wondering what was wrong
with his voice. All at once he realized that he was very near tears. A
startled Elaeno laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’d appreciate that,” Nevyn stammered at last. “Ah ye gods, I’m so
tired.”

“My lord Madoc, I hardly know what the king thinks anymore,” Blaen
said. “And I’ll admit that it aches my heart. I wonder if I pressed
him too hard or suchlike.”

“You might have. Our liege is a touchy man, and jealous of his
strong will.” Madoc hesitated, swirling the mead around in his
goblet. “On the other hand, I think Gwerbret Savyl has more to do
with our liege’s coldness than your lack of tact.”

Blaen winced. Although he knew perfectly well that he was no
polished courtier, he didn’t care to have it pointed out. They were
sitting in Madoc’s comfortable chambers high up in one of the
auxiliary brochs of the palace complex. As well as a pair of
cushioned chairs, the usual table, and a large charcoal brazier,
glowing at the moment against the night chill, the main room
sported a wall shelf with twenty-two books on it. Blaen had counted
them in amazement; never in his life had he seen so many volumes
together outside of a temple of Wmm.

“Well, that was tactless of me in turn, Your Grace,” Madoc said with
a self-deprecating smile. “My apologies, but this matter of cousin is
beginning to vex me. He belongs in Aberwyn, but if the king won’t
recall him . . . ” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“Just so. I’m afraid to request another audience. If I have annoyed
our liege, I don’t want to make things worse. I must say I
appreciate all you’ve done in my service. You can count on me for
aid whenever you need it.”

“My thanks, but the dweomer has a great interest of its own in our
Rhodry.”

“So it would seem.” Blaen had a sip of mead, then put the goblet
down on the table. When he was at court he preferred to stay
sober and on his guard. “I don’t suppose I can ask why.”

“Certainly. It’s no true secret. When Rhodry was a lad Nevyn
received an omen about him. Eldidd’s Wyrd is Rhodry’s Wyrd, or
so it ran.”

“Oh.” Blaen was too staggered to say more. “Oh.”

Madoc smiled, then got up to pace restlessly to the window and
look out at the night sky, stippled with clouds in the light of a half-
moon. At that moment he reminded Blaen strikingly of Nevyn, just
in the warrior-straight way he stood and in the look in his eyes, as if
he were seeing a much wider view than that from the physical
window. The gwerbret wondered all over again if Madoc truly were
the old man’s blood kin. Although he’d doubted it before, the
relationship was beginning to seem plausible.

“So,” the equerry said, “I’ll see if I can have a word with our liege
myself. Never in all the time that I’ve been here have I asked for a
private audience, so perhaps I can get one now. We’ll see on the
morrow.”

When the coaster put into Dun Mannanan, early on a clear day
whose crisp wind proclaimed the coming autumn, Jill was
profoundly glad to get onto dry land again. In her joy at feeling solid
ground under her feet, she barely registered Salamander’s stream
of chatter as they unpacked their gear and piled it up at the end of
the pier. Finally, though, some of his words caught her attention.

“ . . . can’t stay in an inn, it’s too dangerous.”

“Probably so,” Jill said. “I’ve got a friend here in town, but I don’t
think he’ll put you up.”

“What? How ungracious, my turtledove. Why not?”

She leaned close to whisper.

“Because he’s a dwarf, and he thinks all elves are thieves.”

“And I consider his people to be dullards and sots, and bad cess
to him. But you’re right enough. We’d best acquire some horses
and get on our way.”

“We might stop in at Otho’s, though.” Jill was looking forward to
seeing the silversmith again. “He’ll be able to tell us the best place
to buy stock.”

Otho’s house was at the edge of town, down by the river. Over the
door hung three silver bells that rang in a gentle cascade when Jill
pushed it open. They went into the antechamber, a narrow slice of
the round house, set off from the rest by a wickerwork partition. In
the partition hung a dirty green blanket for want of a proper door.

“Who’s there?” Otho called out.

“Jill the silver dagger, and a friend.”

Wiping his hands on a rag, the smith pushed aside the blanket and
came out. He glared at Salamander in exaggerated suspicion.

“So, young Jill, your taste in men gets worse and worse. You’ve left
one misbegotten elf for another, but this one’s a fop to boot!”

Salamander’s mouth dropped open, but Jill hurriedly started talking
before he could recover from his surprise.

“I haven’t left Rhodry at all, Otho! This is his brother, not some
lover of mine.”

“Humph. Fine family you’ve married into.” He paused, looking the
gerthddyn over carefully. “You must be cursed clever with your
fingers, lad, to have such fine clothing. I’m not letting you into my
workshop, that’s for sure.”

“Now here! I’m not a thief!”

“Hah! That’s all I have to say to that: hah! Now, what do you want
with me today, Jill?”

“Just some advice. Is there an honest horse trader in town?”

“Not in town, but there’s one about a mile north of here. Bevydd’s
his name, and he’s somewhat of a friend of mine. I’ve made him
many a fancy piece of tack over the years. Tell him I sent you. You
take the river road straight out of town to the north, and then turn
left at the lane edged with beech trees.”

“A mile?” Salamander said with a groan. “Walk a whole mile?”

Otho rolled his eyes up so far it looked like he was going to lose
them.

“And doesn’t her ladyship have soft feet today? Ye gods, Jill, I’d
find some other clan to marry into if I were you.”

“They grow on you once you get to know them.”

“Like moss, no doubt, or mildew.”

“I beg your pardon,” Salamander snapped. “I don’t have to stand
here and be insulted.”

“No doubt you could be insulted anywhere you went.”

When Salamander opened his mouth for a retort, Jill elbowed him
sharply.

“Please forgive him, Otho. I was wondering if you had a map of the
Auddglyn I could look at. One that shows what lies to the east.”

“Well.” He paused to scratch his head with one gnarled finger. “I
might have somewhat like that, and for old times’ sake I’ll go look
for it. You keep an eye on this fancy lad out here for me.”

Otho pushed his way back through the blanket, and in a moment or
two they heard the unmistakable sound of heaps of objects being
rummaged through, a rustling, a banging, and the occasional oath.

“May the gods shorten his beard for him!” Salamander hissed.
“The gall, calling me a thief.”

“Now, now, it’s not like it were personal or suchlike.”

“Humph! And you’ve got gall of your own, asking him to forgive
me.”

“Well, I was just trying to smooth things over. Hush—here he
comes.”

Otho made a triumphant return with a yellowed and cracking scroll
in one hand. He took it to the window and unrolled it carefully while
Jill and Salamander crowded round for a look. It mostly showed
the Auddglyn coast, and Jill got the distinct impression that it had
been drawn long before the province was truly settled. To the east
beyond Dun Mannanan it showed the island group known as the
Pig and Piglets, but the village of Brigvetyn just to the north of them
was missing. Even farther on, the eastern side of the parchment
was blank, except for a small banner bearing the words “Here there
be dragons.”

“Dragons?” Jill said. “That must be some scribe’s whimsy and
naught more.”

“Just so,” Salamander said. “Deverry dragons all live in the
northern mountains.”

“What?!”

“Oh, just a jest.” Yet he spoke so hurriedly that she knew he was
covering something over. “A tale for another time. Now see that
little river here, my turtledove? The Tabaver? That estuary is where
we’re going.”

“I never heard that there was any town out there.”

“Of course. That’s why I said you were in for a surprise.”

Salamander was speaking naught but the truth for a change. After
they bought new stock, a sturdy gray for Salamander, a battle-
steady chestnut for Jill, and a pack mule, they headed east,
following the coast road to Cinglyn, about four days’ ride away. For
this part of the journey, the gravel and packed-earth road was well
kept up, and it ran through good farmlands, where the farmers
were beginning to harvest the golden summer wheat. Cinglyn itself
was on the verge of growing into a small town from a large village;
they had no trouble buying provisions there. When it came to
knowledge of the road ahead, however, all they got was blank
stares or outright mockery.

“There’s naught out there,” the blacksmith said. “Naught but grass,
that is.”

“Perhaps so,” Salamander said. “But hasn’t anyone ever been
curious, like? Surely someone’s ridden out just for a look.”

“Why?” He paused to spit in the dirt. “Naught out there.”

For the first couple of days, Jill had to agree with him, and she
began to wonder if Salamander were daft. The road dwindled first
to a dirt track, then to a deer trail, then petered out entirely some
fifteen miles from Cinglyn. Salamander led the way down to the
beach itself, and for the rest of the day and on into the next they
rode on the hard-packed sand by the water’s edge. Wildfolk
appeared in swarms and mobbed them, riding on their saddles and
horses’ rumps, running alongside, swirling thick in the air, rising up
from the silver waves that crashed and boomed close at hand.
When they made their evening camp, the spirits sat around in
orderly rows, as if they were waiting for something. Jill found out
what when Salamander obliged them with a song. They listened,
fascinated, then vanished the moment he was done.

On the fourth day, though, she was in for a surprise. They left the
water’s edge and turned inland to find another road. Long disused,
it was only a narrow track through the sea meadows of grass, but it
ran straight and purposefully. Just at noon, they came to an orchard
gone wild, where under the tangle of unpruned trees apples lay
rotting. Just beyond was a circular grassy mound that looked like
the remains of a village wall; inside it Jill could pick out dimpled
circles on the earth where houses had once stood. As soon as
they came close to the ruins, the Wildfolk vanished.

“What happened to this place?” Jill said. “Do you know?”

“It was burned by pirates.”

“Pirates? What would they want with a farming village? I’ll wager
there wasn’t any fabulous plunder here.”

“No gold nor jewels, truly, but wealth all the same. Slaves, my
innocent turtledove, slaves for the Bardek trade. The raiders would
kill all the men as being more trouble than they’re worth, and take
the women and children over in the carracks. Deverry slaves are
rare in the islands, you see, exotic and therefore expensive, like
Western Hunters in the Eldidd horse trade. There used to be a lot
of small villages out here, scattered up the river into the Auddglyn.
All gone now.”

“By all the ice in all the hells! Didn’t the local gwerbret put a stop to
it? Why did it take him so long?”

“The local gwerbret is about a hundred and forty miles away, my
sweet. The pirates finally ended it themselves. They’d overhunted
the place, and there weren’t any villages left that were safe to raid.”

“Oh. You’d think that blacksmith in Cinglyn would’ve know about
this.”

“Of course he did. He refused to mention it, that’s all. That whole
town must live in fear that one day the scum will be bold enough to
come take them.”

The biggest surprise of all lay two more days along. Here the
coastal cliffs became lower and lower, finally fading out into a long
stretch of dunes, scattered with coarse grass. As they rode east,
the grass grew thicker; tiny streams appeared; the ground grew
damp, and here and there trees stood beside ponds and rivulets.
Quite suddenly they found a road made of logs laid down in the
muck. Whenever Jill tried to get some information out of
Salamander, he would only grin and tell her to wait After a couple
of hours more, the road brought them to a straggle of fishermen’s
huts in a sandy cove at one side of a broad, shallow estuary. Drawn
up in the harbor were ships, a few tattered fishing boats, and then
three sleek carracks and two galleys, all with suspicious-looking
accouterments on their prows.

“By the Lord of Hell himself,” Jill said. “Those look like corvos and
ballistas.”

“Thats exactly what they are. Remember those pirates I told you
about? This is where they winter. They’ve got a whole town here
they do, just upriver, and farther on farms to feed it. This, my
dearest turtledove, is Slaith.”

For a few minutes Jill sat on her horse in something like shock
stared at the peaceful harbor. Through the scattered trees along
the riverbank she could see other buildings, and far beyond what
appeared to be the roofs of a sizable town. Finally she found her
voice again.

“Since you know so much about this place, why haven’t you told
one of the gwerbrets in the Auddglyn about it?”

“I tried. They wouldn’t listen. You see, the only way to take Slaith is
to have a fleet of warships. None of the gwerbrets out here do.”

“They could petition the king.”

“Of course—and surrender part of their independence to our liege.
No gwerbret in his right mind asks the king for help unless his
proverbial back is to the wall. The king’s aid brings with it the king’s
obligations, my little pigeon.”

“Are you telling me that the misbegotten gwerbrets are willing to let
these swine breed here just so they don’t have to ask the king a
favor?”

“Just that. Now come along, and leave the talking to me. Saying the
wrong thing is a good way to get your throat cut in Slaith.”

As they rode down to the harbor, Jill noticed that all along the sand
were wooden racks covered with fish drying for the winter. She
could also smell a thick reek of rotting fish entrails, heads, and
tails, the thinner smell of the fish themselves, and an undertone of
swamp stench.

“One forgets about Slaith,” Salamander said in a strangled voice.
“We should have brought pomanders.”

The town proper was about a mile north on the riverbank. The road
picked a precarious way through swampland up to an open gate in
a palisade of whole logs thickly covered with bitumen to keep the
rot away. To Jill that protective covering showed utter arrogance;
those walls would burn from a couple of thrown torches if ever the
place came to a siege. Although the gate had a pair of iron-bound
doors just like a dun, there was no one standing guard at them.

“Getting into Slaith is easy,” Salamander said. “Getting out again is
another matter altogether.”

“And what were you doing here before, anyway?”

“That, my little nightingale, is another tale for another day. My lips
for now are sealed.”

Inside the walls were about five hundred buildings, set on curving,
nicely cobbled streets. Although most of the houses were well
made and recently whitewashed, the swamp stench lay thick over
everything. Jill supposed that after a while, one got used to it, just
as one got used to the stench of the streets in a large city. In the
center was a crowded market square that looked just like any
market day in the rest of the kingdom, with peddlers and craftsmen
displaying their wares in wooden booths, while farmers spread out
produce on blankets or displayed rabbits in wicker cages and
chickens tied by their feet to long poles. Not so ordinary, however,
were the customers, men with the rolling walk of sailors, but all
carrying swords, and women whose faces were heavily painted
with Bardek cosmetics. As Jill and Salamander led their horses
past the market, people looked up, gave them a glance, then
carefully looked away again with no sign of curiosity. Apparently no
one asked questions in Slaith.

All around the market square were inns and taverns, far more than
a town of this size would normally have. They all seemed to be
enjoying good custom, too. At one prosperous-looking place there
were four horses tied up off to the side in the cobbled yard. With a
hiss of breath, Jill grabbed Salamander’s arm.

“See that bay gelding? That used to belong to a man we know.”

Muttering an oath, Salamander slowed down, but he kept moving,
looking at the horse out of the corner of his eyes. The gelding was
no longer carrying Rhodry’s gear; instead of his obvious warrior’s
saddle, it had a lightweight saddle that was little more than a pad
with stirrups, such as a messenger or pleasure rider would use.

“It has a new owner, sure enough,” Salamander said. “Don’t stare
so, my turtledove. Very rude.”

Jill turned away and casually looked over the various inns, but
inside she was burning with rage. Everyone on these streets,
everyone in this stinking town was her enemy now. She wanted to
burn their walls, burn their ships, fall upon them and kill everyone as
they ran screaming from the blazing death. Salamander interrupted
this pleasant fantasy.

“We’re coming to our inn. I’m picking it because it’s likely to be
empty except for us, but still, watch every word you say.”

Down a narrow alley stood a small inn, built along Bardek lines, with
peeling shakes on the roof and water stains on the walls. Out in the
muddy innyard was a sagging stable, a broken-down wagon, and a
pigsty. As they dismounted near the watering trough, a stout man in
his fifties or so came out of the main building and looked
Salamander over with something like alarm.

“Don’t tell me you’re back in town, gerthddyn.”

“I am, good Dumryc. How could I live without another sight of your
handsome face, another view of glorious Slaith, another breath of
its rich and wine-sweet air?”

“Still gabble as much as always, don’t you? Who’s this with you?”

“My bodyguard. Allow me to introduce Gilyn, a true silver dagger,
who’s killed at least one man for each of his sixteen years.”

“Huh. Cursed likely.”

Jill drew, swung, and slit his leather apron from collar to paunch
with the point of her blade. With a yelp, Dumryc flung himself back
and clutched at the flapping halves.

“Next time it’s your fat throat,” Jill said.

“Well and good, lad. Now put that thing away and come in for a
nice, peaceable tankard, like.”

Salamander chose them a chamber on the second-floor corner of
the inn with windows that overlooked the stable yard in both
directions, because it was always a good idea to have a clear view
of trouble coming in Slaith. They stowed their gear, locked the door
with a stout padlock, then went down to the tavern room. A small
boy was stirring an iron kettle of greasy stew at the hearth while
Dumryc was chopping turnips with a dagger at the end of a table.
Jill and Salamander helped themselves to ale from an open barrel,
picked out a fly or two, then sat down nearby.

“And what brings you to Slaith this time?” Dumryc said. “If you
don’t mind my asking, like.”

“I don’t, though I’m not yet ready to answer. Gilyn, here, however,
is looking for an old friend of his, the sharer of many a campfire
and grievous battle. The lad seems to have headed east from
Cerrmor, so I thought. Well, mayhap we’ll pick up news of him in
Slaith, because he’s an Eldidd man, as good on a boat as he is
with a sword.”

“There’s always work for a lad like that here.”

“Just so. His name’s Rhodry of Aberwyn.”

“Hum.” Dumryc was concentrating on his chopping. “Never heard
of him.”

“He might not be using that name. He’s a good-looking fellow, tall,
dark hair, Eldidd eyes, and a silver dagger in his belt.”

“Never ran across him.” Dumryc grabbed another turnip and
chopped it, the dagger moving fast and nervously. “But that doesn’t
mean anything. He might have found a berth as soon as he got
here and shipped out.”

“Could be, could be. He’s a useful sort of man.”

Dumryc smiled tightly at the turnip and said nothing. Salamander
gave Jill a smile and raised one eyebrow as if to say that she
shouldn’t believe a word the innkeep said. He needn’t have
worried; she didn’t need mighty dweomer or suchlike to tell when a
man was lying to her face.

After they finished the ale they went out for a stroll around town.
The market fair was beginning to break up; the farmers and
tradesmen packed what was left of their wares back into wagons
while exhausted children whined and fussed, and wives carefully
counted over their earnings for the day. A few drunks snored in the
strewn straw; dogs nosed about; gaudy whores strolled around,
looking over the pirates who were heading for one tavern or
another. When Jill and Salamander went to look for it, they found
Rhodry’s horse gone.

“There’s no use in asking around for its new owner,” Salamander
remarked with a certain gloom. “No one would tell us the truth.”

“No doubt. What should we do now? Sit around a tavern and see if
we can overhear somewhat of interest?”

“I’m not sure. I—”

“Gerthddyn! Salamander! By the hells, hold and stand!”

A dark-haired man, quite stout, with his long black beard tied up in
six neat braids, was hurrying over to them.

“Snilyn, oh, most beauteous of the bilge rats! Still alive, are you?”

“I am, and glad enough to see you, lad. Got some more good tales
for us?”

“I do, but this time I brought a bodyguard along.”

With a roar of laughter, Snilyn slapped Jill on the back.

“He’s a cautious sort, your hire.” He grinned, revealing several
missing teeth. “But he’s right enough, eh? You never know what the
lads’ll do when they’re drunk. Sober, they’ve got plenty of respect
for a man who can tell a good tale, but drunk, well . . . ” He
shrugged massive shoulders. “Come have a tankard at my
expense, Salamander, and your silver dagger, too.”

Although they went to Snilyn’s favorite tavern, Salamander picked
the table, one where he could keep his back to the wall and have a
good view of the street out the window. A blowsy blond lass
brought tankards of dark ale, then lingered, looking Salamander
over wistfully, until Snilyn sent her away with a slap on the behind.

“It’s not your tongue she wants to see wag, gerthddyn.” The pirate
paused to laugh at his own jest. “So, when did you ride in?”

“Just today. We’re staying over at Dumryc’s inn, because I like an
out-of-the-way spot when I’m in Slaith.”

“Good idea, truly. What brings you here, if I can ask?”

“Well, now, that’s a strange thing. I’d most treasure your advice
about somewhat. We’re looking for another silver dagger, and
when I asked Dumryc about him, he put me off. Let me ask you,
and you don’t have to answer, but you can tell whether or not I
should just forget this lad and never ask again.”

“Done.”

“His name’s Rhodry of Aberwyn.”

“Hold your tongue. Don’t even ask why.”

“Then hold it I will.” Salamander gave Jill a warning jab in the ribs.
“My thanks.”

Salamander began chatting with Snilyn, but Jill sat steaming and
silent over her tankard. She wanted to draw, threaten cold steel,
and stab and slash the truth out of this scruffy lot. Only the simple
fact that she was outnumbered several hundred to one kept her
silent. Salamander ordered and paid for another round of ale, took
the third that Snilyn pressed upon him, too, gulping it down but
staying as sober as only an elf can. He told jest after jest, got
Snilyn laughing until the tears came, ordered more ale yet, and
soon had an appreciative crowd around him to hear an involved but
anatomically impossible story about a blacksmith and a miller’s
daughter.

“And so his hammer went up and down,” Salamander ended up.
“And straightened her horseshoe right out.”

Howling with laughter, Snilyn slapped Salamander on the back so
hard that he nearly knocked the gerthddyn off the bench, then with
a muttered apology grabbed Salamander by the shoulders and
hauled him back. The gerthddyn threw a companionable arm
around him and whispered something in his ear. Although Jill saw
Snilyn first flinch, then whisper an answer, she could hear nothing
over the noise of pirates yelling for more tales. Salamander let go
of Snilyn and obliged with a story even more bawdy than the one
before.

It was another hour before Salamander could extricate himself
from his admirers, who pressed pieces of ill-gotten silver into his
hands as he left. Her hand on her sword hilt, Jill walked a little
behind him and kept watch for pickpockets as they headed back to
the inn. Once they were off the main street, though, Salamander
motioned her up beside him.

“Well, I’ve got a bit of bad news.”

“Indeed? What did you ask Snilyn?”

“Clever Gilyn of the sharp eye.” Salamander gave her a grin,
“Never underestimate the power of good fellowship, bawdy cheer,
and all the rest of it. I also drew upon the power of surprise and let
him know that I knew more than he thought I did. The question was,
to wit, whether anyone stood to make a profit off our Rhodry, and
the answer was, they did, about twenty gold pieces.”

“Twenty? That’s an enormous lwdd for a silver dagger. They must
know he’s heir to Aberwyn.”

“Lwdd? Ah, you fail to understand. Not a blood price, my
beauteous meadowlark, just a price. I see you have led a sheltered
and happy life, Gillo, far from the evils and troubles that cruel men
visit upon—”

“Cut the horse crap, or I’ll slit your throat.”

“How indelicate, but very well. Less horse crap; more horse meat.
They’ve taken Rhodry to Bardek to sell him as a slave.”

Jill opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come.

“I was afraid of somewhat like this,” Salamander went on. “Which is
why we’re in beauteous Slaith in the first place. Whoever has
Rhodry seems to be a most unpleasant sort of person. You saw
Snilyn wince at the very thought of him, and I assure you that Snilyn
doesn’t wince easily. Although he has many a strangely perverted
flaw, cowardice is not among them.”

“Bardek! Oh, by all the ice in all the hells, how are we going to get
there? The last ships across are leaving Cerrmor by now. By the
time we get back there—”

“Cruel winter will be whipping the Southern Sea to a frenzy, I know,
I know. We need a ship. We can, walk, trot, run, and even dance,
but we can, alas, do none of these upon the water. It is too far to
swim. Therefore, ships are the order of the day. We are in a place
with ships all nicely drawn up down, at the harbor. What, my little
turtledove, does this suggest to you?”

“Now here, these are pirates! If we get out alone on the water with
this lot, they could take us and sell us as slaves, too. I can’t fight off
twenty men all by myself.”

“Ah, what becoming modesty! You’re right, of course: never trust
pirate. I’ve impressed said pirates, but that’s not enough. When it
comes to these lads, only one thing works: terror. Now let’s go get
somewhat to eat while I think up a plan.”

After a meal of griddle cakes with cheese and fried onions, they
went back to the center of town. By then the sun was setting, a time
when the streets in most towns would be growing quiet and empty,
but here there were plenty of people on the prowl, some carryring
lanterns or torches and going briskly about their businesss, others
merely standing around on street corners or in alleyways as if
waiting for something. A number of people were leading gray
donkeys with pack saddles and bridles trimmed with little bells that
jingled musically. In the gathering twilight, with a cool sea breeze
wiping away most of the stink, Slaith was oddly cheerful, like a town
getting ready for a festival, yet all Jill could think of was murder.
These innocent-seeming folk had helped ship her Rhodry off to
some horrible Wyrd, and all she wanted was to see them dead.
Everything became preternaturally bright, sharp: the bells striking
like gongs, the torches flaring up like enormous fires, the sweaty
faces around her looming and swelling, the ordinary sunset burning
like a sea of blood. Abruptly Salamander grabbed her arm, shook it
hard, and dragged her into the semi-privacy of a narrow alley.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered. “You look like death itself.”

“Do I? Ye gods.” Jill ran shaking hands down her face and
breathed deeply, gulping the cooler air. “I don’t know what I did. I . .
. I was brooding, like, over things, and all at once the world turned
strange, like when I was with Perryn. I must have tapped into the
power without knowing it.”

Salamander groaned under his breath.

“That’s as dangerous as summoning a demon! We can’t talk about
it here, so try to control yourself.”

Jill merely nodded, suddenly very tired. The world around her
seemed painted with brighter colors than normal, but otherwise her
vision had settled down. They went to a tavern at one corner of the
market square, a big place that was one round stone room with an
unusually high ceiling. When the serving wench brought them ale.
Salamander asked her about the height of the room.

“Oh, the lads just had a bit of a brawl, and they knocked over a
lantern into the straw. Whoosh—up everything went, and the floor
upstairs along with it”

“Must have been a splendid show,” Salamander said. “Excuse me
a moment, Gillo. Just have to go out back.”

As soon as Salamander was out the back door, the lass sat down
next to Jill on the bench. She was a pretty thing, no more than
sixteen under the Bardek kohl that rimmed her blue eyes. Her hair
was blond, and done up in elaborate curls and set with little shell
combs in the Bardek fashion, but she was wearing a pair of
ordinary Deverry dresses.

“You must have been ever so lonely on the road with that chattering
gerthddyn,” she said. “How about a bit of company, Gillo?”

Jill was too stunned to speak. Here was a woman actually taken in
by her ruse! Although she was used to fooling men, most women
saw through her acting at once. When the lass laid a hand on her
thigh, she shrank away.

“Oho, shy, aren’t you? His bodyguard, the gerthddyn calls you, but
I’ll wager it’s a bit more than that. Oh well, no offense, mind.
There’s men like that, and they don’t go bothering me, so it’s up to
their fancy, I always say.” She took Jill’s tankard and had an
absentminded sip. “I always did wonder why the gerthddyn was so
coy and shy like with us lasses,” She paused for a wicked little
smile. “But you so young and all. Don’t you think you should try a
slice off a different cut of meat, just once, like?”

Too flustered to speak, Jill looked desperately around and saw that
they’d gathered an audience, a grinning ring of pirates and
wenches. Someone suddenly whispered an alarm: Salamander
was stalking in the back door.

“And what’s all this?” In a fine show of furious indignation, the
gerthddyn shoved his way through the crowd. “You little bitch!
Hunting on my preserve, are you?”

Slowly and dramatically, Salamander raised his hand and pointed
at the tankard, which the lass was still cradling in her hands. Blue
fire shot from his fingers, struck the tankard, and flared, making the
ale steam and boil. With a scream, the lass threw the tankard onto
the table and leapt up, tangling her dresses in the bench and
tripping. The rest of the audience jumped back with oaths and
shouts.

“You little slut,” Salamander said to Jill. “Bad as a lass, I swear it.”

In the crowd a couple of pirates were reaching for swords.
Salamander let out a howl of laughter and waved his hand again.
Thunder cracked and boomed in the tavern; smoke billowed; blue
light shot through the sudden darkness. All the wenches screamed
and ran for the door; the men fell back, shouting and cursing.
Salamander swirled and tossed a convincing if tiny lightning bolt at
the doorway. Screaming hysterically, the wenches ran back into the
crowd.

“No one leave,” Salamander called out. “You foul-minded fools!
You odiferous and fly-swarmed lumps of swine offal! Whom do
you think to insult so boldly?”

With a graceful fling of one arm Salamander jumped up onto the
table in the midst of a sudden swirl of purple smoke and began to
laugh, the deep, musical ripple of delight that only someone with
elven blood can summon. Gasping, white-faced, the pirates and
wenches clung together in the curve of the wall. The lass wbo’d
started all the trouble crawled away on her hands and knees to join
them.

“So.” Salamander drawled the word portentously. “Swine! Turds!
You thought me a babbling fool, did you? A mere plaything,
beneath you in your sordid lusts and bloodshed! Hah! Would a
weak man dare walk the evil streets of Slaith?” He paused for a
dramatic glare at the crowd. “If I wanted, I could burn this stinking
hellhole to the ground, and you bastard-born lice would crisp and
fry along with it.”

In illustration, he shot a bolt at a barrel of ale, which burst into
superficial flames. The wenches screamed again; the men surged
forward; but as the fire burned through the wood, the ale rushed
out and doused it with the acrid stink of singed hops.

“Does anyone doubt my powers?” Salamander went on.

In unison heads shook a no like grain bowing in the winds. With a
cold, cruel smile, Salamander set his hands on his hips.

“Well and good, swine. Return to your paltry amusements, but
remember what I am, and treat me with the deference I deserve.”

He jumped down from the table and sat down next to Jill. For a
long moment the silence hung in the room like the last of the
smoke; then slowly, one at a time, the pirates began whispering,
turning back to their ale, or, in the case of the weaker souls,
slipping out the door. Once the noise returned to a normal level,
Salamander put his arm around Jill’s shoulders and pulled her
close to whisper.

“This should infuse them with a deep if short-lived piety, huh?” He
raised his voice again. “Wench! Come take this charred and
stinking tankard away and bring me fresh drink!”

Bowing and trembling, the servant lass sidled over and grabbed
the still-steaming tankard with a wadded cloth. When she brought
back the fresh, she curtsied like a court lady, then shamelessly ran
away. Salamander raised the tankard in salute and drank a good bit
right off.

“So, my unfaithful Gilyn, you’ve learned your lesson, have you?”

“I have, at that.” Jill had thoughts of strangling him for all the
blather. “But I’m not sure which one.”

The news spread almost as fast as Salamander’s dweomer fire. In
little clots, pirates and townsfolk appeared at the door or the
windows, stuck their heads in for a look at Salamander, then
withdrew them fast and moved on. Finally Snilyn came striding in
and shook the gerthddyn’s hand with a hearty bellow of laughter.
As Salamander had remarked, cowardice was certainly not one of
his vices.

“I’m cursing myself for missing the sight,” Snilyn said, sitting down
unasked. “I would have enjoyed seeing the bastard swine running
from you, sorcerer.”

“You’ll have your chance if anyone gives me any more trouble.”

“And a wretched small chance that is, unless, of course, you’re
staying here long.”

“I’m not, truly. In fact, my friend, maybe you can help me. I’m
minded to go to Bardek before the winter sets in. Do you know of
anyone making one last run that way? I’ll pay good coin for our
passage.”

Snilyn signaled for ale while he considered the question.

“Well, I don’t, at that,” he said finally. “But you might talk Buthvyn
into taking you over. Whether he winters here or in Pastur is all the
same to him, and he had a lean summer of it. Depends on how
much coin you’re willing to spend.”

“No doubt an adequate sum. I have a great and burning desire to
see Bardek again, the beauteous palms, the shining sands, the rich
merchants with their sacks of gold and jewels.”

“Must be a tidy profit there, truly, for a man like you. Why, by the
Lord of Hell’s hairy balls! You could take one of them caravans all
on your own!”

“I prefer to charm the gold out of merchants’ paws, but you’re right
enough about the profit. The way I like to live does not come
cheap, and this little minx of mine is developing a decided taste for
luxury. It’s a pity how easily young lads are corrupted.”

When Snilyn snorted with laughter, Jill wondered whose throat she
wanted to slit more, his or Salamander’s.

“But this Buthvyn had best not give us one whit of trouble,” the
gerthddyn went on. “I can set wood on fire with a flick of a finger,
you see. Ships, as you well know, are made of wood.”

Snilyn went both silent and decidedly green.

“I see you understand.” Salamander smiled gently. “Fear not, I
shall make sure that the glorious Buthvyn understands as well.
Where can we find this prince of the oceans, this ferocious sea
lion?”

“Down at the Green Parrot, but I wouldn’t call him all of that, truly.”

Buthvyn was one of the tallest men Jill had ever met and also one
of the skinniest, his shoulders as narrow as his narrow hips, his
long arms like ropes and scarred at that, his face all sharp edges
and long, pinched nose. From the eagerness with which he
greeted Salamander’s proposal, it was clear that he was not a
successful pirate. He had a ragged but seaworthy cog, he said,
and fifteen lads to sail it, all of whom, or so he swore, were loyal
men with closed mouths. Salamander made sure of this loyalty by
lighting the wood in the tavern hearth with one flick of his hand. As
the flames sprang up and spread on the heavy logs, Buthvyn went
pale.

“Straight to Bardek and no shilly-shallying around,” the pirate said,
swallowing heavily. “As fast and straight as the winds will take us.”

“Splendid!” Salamander said. “Can you carry horses, or should I
sell our glorious steeds?”

“I would if I was you. Hard trip across for stock, and this isn’t no big
merchantman. You can get good horses in Bardek, anyway.”

“So you can. When do we sail? I detest waiting.”

“Tomorrow dawn when the tie goes out. That be fast enough?”

“It is. We shall meet you at the harbor while it’s still dark.”

When they returned to Dumryc’s inn, Jill and Salamander found the
tale gone before them. A newly servile Dumryc gave them a candle
lantern and bowed repeatedly, like a crow drinking water, as they
went upstairs to their chamber. As soon as the door was safely
barred, Salamander collapsed onto the mattress and howled with
laughter until he choked. Jill hung the lantern on a nail in the wall
and glared at him.

“Ah ye gods,” Salamander gasped when he could speak again.
“That was truly one of the best jests in my life, and I’ve perpetrated
a lot of them, Jill, my turtledove.”

“No doubt.” Jill put ice in her voice.

“Ah.” Salamander sat up, wrapping his long arms around his knees,
and let his grin fade away. “I think me you’re vexed with this whole
ruse, the portentous words, the flaming fires, and so forth, but
unless the lads think us as evil as they—and as dangerous—they
won’t respect us, no matter how many hints we drop about dark
dweomer. I’ve no desire to be drugged and tossed overboard one
fine night when we’re out to sea.”

“Well, true-spoken, but ye gods, why all the show? Why not just set
somewhat on fire and threaten them?”

“Jill.” Salamander stared at her with reproachful eyes. “That
wouldn’t have been any fun.”

“They’re doing what?” Elaeno was so furious that his thunder of a
voice made the wooden shutters rattle at the windows.

“Going to Bardek on a pirate ship.” Nevyn still could hardly believe
his own words. “That chattering idiot of an elf is taking Jill to Bardek
on a pirate ship.”

Elaeno opened his mouth and shut it several times.

“Have some mead,” Nevyn said. “Normally I don’t drink the stuff,
but tonight, for some strange reason, I feel the need.”

For some nights Blaen had had trouble sleeping, Generally he
would dress, then prowl the long mazelike corridors of the king’s
palace and wonder why he was wasting his time staying in Dun
Deverry. Soon he would have to start the long journey back to Cwm
Pecl, before the winter snows came to trap him in the king’s city far
from home. On that particular night, he wandered half-purposely
over to Lord Madoc’s chambers and found, as he’d somehow
been expecting, a crack of light showing under the sorcerer’s door.
As he hesitated, wondering whether or not to knock, the door
opened to reveal Madoc wearing a nightshirt over a pair of brigga.

“Ah, there you are, Blaen. I couldn’t sleep either, and the spirits
told me you were on your way. Come in for a nightcap.”

Although Blaen looked hastily around, he saw no spirits and
decided that it was safe enough to go in. Madoc poured them both
dark ale sweetened with Bardek cinnamon and cloves.

“Want this heated?”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I don’t mind it cool.”

“Here, then.” Madoc handed him a tankard. “Have a chair.”

They settled themselves by the brazier, glowing cherry red in the
drafty chamber. Blaen took an approving sip of the strong, dark ale.

“I was planning on coming to see you first thing in the morning,”
Madoc said. “I have some news. The king has finally deigned to tell
me that he’s sending a herald to Aberwyn tomorrow at dawn.”

“By the Lord of Hell himself! Why?”

“No one knows. His liege is apparently vexed with Savyl more than
he is with you, and he’s saying not a word to anyone about it. All I
know is that the herald is carrying some grave and serious
proclamation. It could be recalling Rhodry, or it could be
summoning the Council of Electors to choose a new heir. By the
gods, it could merely be raising taxes, for all that I know.”

Blaen groaned under his breath and had a long swallow of ale.

“I’ve sent word to Nevyn already, of course,” Madoc said.

“Splendid. Here, may I put a blunt question? Where is Rhodry? I
think me you know.”

Madoc considered for a moment, studying Blaen’s face as if he
were reading a message there.

“I do, at that,” he said at last. “Will you swear to me to keep this to
yourself?”

“On the honor of my clan.”

“Done, then. Rhodry’s in Bardek. His enemies took him there and
sold him as a slave.”

“They what? By every god, I’ll have them hanged for this! I’ll have
them spitted and drawn! The gall! Selling my kin for a blasted
slave!”

“Your Grace? May I suggest you sit down?”

Blaen was quite surprised to find himself standing. He took a deep
breath and sat down again.

“After all, Your Grace, at least he’s alive.”

“Just so.” Blaen took another deep breath and reminded himself
that he couldn’t do anything at all in the middle of the night. “I
wonder if I can possibly get a ship for Bardek this time of year, one
that can carry a good part of my warband.”

“You can’t, Your Grace, and truly, it would be unwise for you to go
after him. I think me you’ll be needed more here in the spring,
when he returns. Well,” Madoc’s face turned haunted. “If we can
pull him out of this, at any rate.”

“I have great faith in the dweomer’s power, my lord.”

“My thanks. Let us hope it’s justified.”

By the gentle rocking of the hull, the prisoner knew that they were
lying at anchor in one harbor or another. For a while he merely lay
on his pallet and looked round the nearly empty hold. When he’d
started this voyage, the hold had been full of boxes and bales.
How long ago now? Weeks. He wasn’t sure how many. When he
rose to his knees, the ankle chain clanked and clattered, but it was
long enough to let him reach the porthole and pull up the oiled-
leather covering. The blinding dazzle of sun on water made his
eyes blink and tear, but in a few minutes he could make out a long
white beach and a steep cliff face beyond a forest of masts. All the
harbors had looked much like this. For all he knew, they’d been
shuttling back and forth between a pair of towns. He did know,
however, that they were in the Bardekian archipelago. His captors
had told him that several times, as if it were important that he knew.
He repeated it to himself now, saying it aloud: “I’m in Bardek.” It
was one of the few things he did know about himself.

He held up his right arm and looked at the pale skin that marked
him as a Deverry man. Although he knew where and what Deverry
was, he couldn’t remember ever having been there personally, but
his captors assured him that he’d been born there, in the province
off Pyrdon, to be exact. He also remembered both his native
tongue and the small amount of Bardekian he’d known before his
capture. In fact, one of his few solid memories was of studying that
language when he’d been a child. He had a clear image of his tutor,
a dark-skinned man with gray hair and a kindly, ready smile, telling
him that he needed to study hard because of his position in life.
What that position was he didn’t remember. Perhaps he’d been the
son of a merchant; it was a reasonable supposition. At any rate,
although he was far from fluent in Bardekian, that early training was
making it possible for him to pick up bits and pieces of the
conversations he overheard and to ask simple questions.
Sometimes his questions were answered; more often, not.

When he heard noises behind him, the prisoner turned away and
let the porthole cover fall. The man called Gwin was coming down
the ladder, and he carried a small cloth sack under one arm.

“Clothes for you.” Gwin tossed the sack over. “A tunic, sandals.
Bardek clothes. You leave here today. Glad?”

“I don’t know. What happens next?”

“You’ll be sold.”

The prisoner nodded, thinking things over. Since they’d already
told him he was a slave, the news was no surprise. He’d even
overheard someone saying that he’d fetch a good price, because
he was an exotic commodity like a rare breed of dog. While he
dressed, Gwin poked among the remaining boxes and bales, but
only idly, as if he were making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Gwin? Do you know my name?”

“Yes. Hasn’t anyone told you? It’s Taliaesyn.”

“Thanks. I wondered.”

“No doubt.” He paused, looking at the prisoner with an odd
expression, a certain very thin, very fragile sympathy. “Someone
will fetch you soon. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

After Gwin left, Taliaesyn sat down on his pallet and wondered why
a man like that would wish him good luck, then shrugged the
problem away as being as unsolvable as most of the mysteries
around him. He said his name over several times in the hopes that
it would bring memories with it. Nothing came—nothing at all, not
an image, not a sound, not a single word from the life he must have
had before that morning, weeks ago, when he’d woken up in the
hold of this ship. He could still remember his absolute panic when
he’d realized that he knew nothing about himself, nothing about
how he’d come to be chained there. For a few minutes he’d felt like
a hysterical animal, throwing itself this way and that against the bars
of a cage, biting even those who try to soothe it. But the fit had
gone quickly, long before his captors had come down to gloat over
him. He’d found the knowledge he needed, that morning: memory
or not, he was still a man, he had speech, he had thought, and he
would fight to keep that sense of selfhood.

Over the weeks that followed, he dredged up a few bits of memory
from his past, and he’d woven them into a story that defined what
he knew of his self. Now he had a bit more to add.

“I am Taliaesyn of Pyrdon, a merchant’s son once, now a
slave—but a valuable slave, mind. They tell me I ran up gambling
debts here in Bardek. I remember that Deverry law can’t save a
free man when he’s this far from home, so I was arrested and sold
to pay the debts. I must be the son of an important merchant; why
else would a Deverry man be in Bardek?”

For a moment he considered the question, came up with no
answer, and dismissed it. He had three actual memories to fit into
the story. The first, of course, was his old tutor in the Bardek
tongue, a memory that fit smoothly into the tale. The other two,
however, were difficult and troubling. First, there was the beautiful
blond lass. Now, although it was logical enough that a merchant’s
son would have a wife or mistress (because in the memory she
was getting into bed with him), why was she taking off men’s
clothing instead of a dress? The second memory made even less
sense. He saw a man’s face and shoulders looming in what
seemed to be smoke or heavy fog; the man was wearing chain
mail and a pot helm, and blood sheeted down his face. With the
image came the words: “the first man I ever killed.” Merchants’
sons, however, didn’t kill people—unless perhaps the victim was a
bandit?

Taliaesyn smiled in relief. It would make sense if he’d been leading
a caravan and that fellow had been a bandit, and as he thought it
over, another memory stirred, mules braying in a crisp dawn. Of
course. Of course! And if the lass were his wife, traveling with him?
Why, it would be hard to ride in long dresses—why not wear men’s
clothes? He felt a deep satisfaction at knitting the tale together at
last.

Yet the satisfaction was only momentary, because he was always
aware that his captors might be lying to him. Although their story
was reasonable, and in line with the general knowledge he
remembered about the world, he could confirm none of it. There
was this business of it being so hard to think. At times, he could
barely put two words together or remember a thing he’d been told
not a minute before; at others, the whole world seemed strange,
far away yet brightly colored, and his mind made odd jumps and
lapses. As he thought about it, it occurred to him that he often felt
that way after being fed. They were probably putting strange drugs
in his food. He knew that somewhere in his mind was a reason for
thinking that these people were the sort to drug their prisoners,
even though he couldn’t quite put a mental finger on it. Over the
past weeks he’d come to think of knowledge, which he’d always
taken for granted before, in terms of a very involved metaphor, that
each thing a man knew was like a water lily. Each blossom floated
in the sun on top of the pool of his mind, but it was dependent
upon its long stalk and roots underneath to connect it to the earth
and to all the other lilies. He felt as though someone had swung a
scythe through his mind, leaving only a few broken flowers to wither
on top of the pond, cut off from any connection or possible
meaning. Although the conceit was peculiar, it fit in a satisfying
way. Something had sliced through his mind. He was certain of
that.

In a few minutes he heard a small commotion on deck, and the
ship rocked once as voices called out. Someone’s boarding, he
thought. It occurred to him that he’d been on ships before, that he
knew a certain amount about them, provided they were small ships,
like a galley. He remembered, then, being on a war galley, standing
near the carved prow and feeling the spray break over him. What
was a merchant’s son doing on a war galley? He had no chance to
examine that disturbing question any further, because someone
threw back the hatch at the bow and light spilled into the hold.

The mute climbed down the ladder and made the gurgling sound in
his throat that did him for a greeting. A bent and wizened black crab
of a man, he’d had his tongue cut out many years before, or so
Gwin had said, without adding why. Behind the mute came the man
called Briddyn, with his oily hair and even slicker beard, and behind
him a tall, dark brown Bardekian whom Taliaesyn had never seen
before. Dressed in a fine white linen tunic with one red sleeve, the
fellow carried a pair of wooden tablets, smeared with wax, and a
bone stylus. As Briddyn gestured at various bales and crates, the
other began jotting down figures and symbols on the wax.
Customs officer, Taliaesyn thought.

The mute knelt down and unlocked the ankle chain. Taliaesyn’s
relief at having it gone died abruptly when the old man handed him
a collar and pointed at his neck. When Taliaesyn hesitated, Briddyn
turned to him.

“Put it on. Right now.”

Taliaesyn buckled it round his neck and made no objection when
the mute padlocked on the chain. Although he had trouble
remembering the details, he knew that Briddyn had caused him
pain—intense pain—once before. The not-quite-memory persisted
as a gut-wrenching fear whenever Briddyn looked his way with his
pale, lashless eyes. The customs officer cleared his throat, then
asked a long question, of which Taliaesyn understood nothing.

“Yes.” Briddyn handed over a strip of the thin-beaten bark the
Bardekians used instead of parchment. “Here.”

Nodding, lips pursed, the customs officer read it carefully, glancing
Taliaesyn’s way every now and then.

“Expensive piece of goods,” he remarked.

“Barbarian slaves are rare these days.”

It was then that Taliaesyn realized that the officer had been
examining his bill of sale. His cheeks burned as the shame
overwhelmed him: here he was, a Deverrian and a free man, sold
like a horse in a foreign land. Yet already Briddyn and the officer
had turned their attention elsewhere. To them he was nothing but a
routine transaction, worth neither pity nor mockery. When they were
done in the hold, the mute led Taliaesyn up onto the deck after
them. While Briddyn and the port officials haggled over duties and
taxes, the prisoner got his first good look around him in weeks.

The harbor was a narrow inlet about half a mile wide, cut into tall
cliffs of pale pink sandstone. Four long wooden piers jutted out
from the shallow beach, where a jumble of shacks and sheds
stood among beached fishing boats and palm trees. Up above on
the cliff tops were what seemed to be more substantial buildings in
the long rectangular Bardekian style.

“A city?” Taliaesyn said.

The mute nodded yes, and a nearby sailor glanced their way.

“Myleton. It’s called Myleton.”

Taliaesyn repeated the name and added it to his small store of
facts. As he remembered, Myleton was on the island, Bardektinna,
that had mistakenly given part of its name to the entire archipelago
when Deverry men had first sailed its way. Shading his eyes with
one hand, he studied what few of the cliff-top buildings he could
see. One in particular interested him, an enormous wooden
structure at least a hundred feet long and three stories high, its roof
curved and swelling like the overturned hull of a ship. Standing next
to it was a wooden statue, some forty feet tall, of a man with a bird
on his shoulder.

“Temple?” Taliaesyn asked the sailor.

“Yes. Dalae-oh-contaemo. The albatross guide, the wave father.”

“Ah. So his temple is in the harbor.”

The sailor nodded. With a jerk of the chain, the mute led Taliaesyn
away from the fellow as abruptly as if he were dangerous and
made him stand near the gangplank. When Taliaesyn happened to
glance over the side, he almost cried out. The blue-green water
was alive with spirits, faces and hands and manes of hair that
formed only to dissolve again, eyes that stared out at him from sun
glints, voices that whispered in the foam, long thin fingers that
pointed at him, then vanished. Instinctively he knew that he had to
keep silent about them. When he glanced furtively around, it was
plain that no one else had seen a thing. He felt smug, almost sly; in
this, he was superior to his captors, that the Wildfolk knew and
recognized him. He only wished that he could remember why. All at
once, the deck was full of gnomes, tall blue fellows, brown fat
ones, skinny green beings with frog faces and warty fingers, all
clustering round in a comforting sort of way. They patted him,
smiled at him, then vanished as suddenly as they’d come. He
looked up to see Briddyn walking over, studying what seemed to
be a bill of lading. Taliaesyn’s heart thudded, then settled when it
was obvious that Briddyn hadn’t seen the Wildfolk—or could he
even do so? Taliaesyn thought he might, but he couldn’t quite
remember why.

“Well, that’s all in order,” Briddyn said to the mute. “Let’s take the
slave to the market. No use feeding him any longer.”

The mute winked and grinned with a sly glance for the customs
officer striding away down the pier. This gesture was the first
confirmation Taliaesyn had for his hunch that something was wrong
with these merchants. He was sure now that the bill of sale was not
quite legal. Although he had the brief thought of calling to the
officer, Briddyn was watching him again. The silver lizard clip in his
beard winked in the strong sun.

“At times you remind me of a child,” Briddyn said in Deverrian. “I
can read everything on your face. Do you remember what I did to
you when I had you tied to the deck?”

“I don’t, truly, not in any detail.” Yet the fear made him swallow
heavily and force every word through dry lips.

“It’s doubtless for the best that you don’t, lad. Let me warn you this.
You’re a legal slave now. Do you understand what that means? If
you try to escape, you’ll be hunted down, and they’ll catch you. No
one in this demon-haunted country will life a finger to help a
runaway slave. Once they catch you, they’ll kill you—but slowly, one
small piece at a time. What I did to you was naught compared to
the way an archon’s men treat rebellious slaves. I heard of one
poor wretch that took two months to die. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

Briddyn smiled, the lashless eyes blinking once or twice in
remembered pleasure. Taliaesyn winced and looked away. The
memory was pushing closer and closer to the surface of his mind,
a searing pain like fire, and all caused by the pressure of his
tormentor’s fingers. When he shuddered, Briddyn laughed under
his breath, such a self-satisfied sound that Taliaesyn felt his fear
break like an old rope. No matter what pain it cost him, he would
have to fight back, or he would never be a man again. He looked
Briddyn squarely in the face.

“I’ll make you a promise. Someday I will escape, and when I do. I’ll
come for you. Remember that: someday I’ll kill you for this.”

Briddyn laughed again, easily, openly.

“Shall we flog him for that?” he said to the mute, in Bardekian. “No,
it would lower his price. Maybe I’ll take a minute to show him who’s
master here, though.”

“No.” It was Gwin, stepping in between them. “You’ve done enough
to someone who’s twice the man you are.”

Briddyn went dangerously calm, dangerously still, but Gwin stared
him down.

“There’s no time, anyway. Take him and sell him, and be done with
it.”

Muttering under his breath, Briddyn gestured at the mute, who
jerked the chain so hard that Taliaesyn nearly stumbled, but under
Gwin’s watchful eye he never jerked it that way again. As they went
down the gangplank and across the beach, all of them stumbling a
little in the soft sand, Taliaesyn was trying to remember how he’d
earned Gwin’s respect, but no memories came. Switchbacking
stairs, cut deep into the stone, brought them to the cliff top directly
by the temple, but Taliaesyn had no time to inspect it. He got a
general impression of a vast arched doorway, carved with rows of
human figures and birds, before the mute growled at him and
made him hurry on.

The city gates, lay directly across a wide road from the temple. As
they went in, Taliaesyn’s first impression was that they were
walking into a forest. Everywhere he looked he saw trees lining the
wide, straight streets and covering them with a shady canopy of
interlaced branches, or planted thick around every house and
building. Although he recognized a palm tree here and there, most
were varieties he’d never seen before: a shrubby kind with tiny red
flowers in clumps; a tall thick-trunked tree with narrow, dust-colored
leaves and a spicy scent; yet another with purple flowers as long
as a man’s finger. Vines twined around the trees and threatened to
take over the various wooden and marble statues he saw scattered
in the small public squares or at the intersections of streets.
Among the greenery stood the rectangular longhouses with their
nautical roofs, some guarded by tall statues of the inhabitants’
ancestors; others, by pairs of what seemed to be wooden oars, but
made large enough for a giant, standing crossed on end.

Sauntering down the streets or crossing from house to house was
a constant flow of people, all dressed in tunics and sandals, men
and women alike. The men, however, had brightly colored designs
painted on one cheek, while the women wore broochlike oddments
tucked into their elaborately curled and piled hair. He vaguely
remembered that both ornament and paint identified the wearer’s
“house” or clan.

What surprised Taliaesyn the most, however, were the children,
running loose in packs down the streets, playing elaborate games
in the public spaces and private gardens alike without anyone
saying a cross word to them. They were also mostly naked, boys
and girls alike wearing only bright-colored pieces of cloth wrapped
around their hips. Watching them made him think that yes, he must
be a foreigner here, because back in Deverry children would have
been dressed just like their parents and working at their sides in
the family craft shop or farm.

As they went along, the houses grew larger and stood farther apart.
Some were isolated by high stucco walls, painted with pictures of
animals and trees; others, by flowering hedges and vines. All at
once they came between two blue walls and out into an open
public square, as large as three Deverry tourney grounds. Shallow
steps led down to a cobbled plaza, nearly deserted in the
shimmering heat. An old man drowsed on a marble bench; three
children chased each other around a marble fountain, where
dolphins intertwined under splashing water.

“What is this?” Taliaesyn said, “A marketplace?”

“No,” Gwin said. “It’s the place of assembly, where the citizens
come to vote.”

“Vote? I don’t know this word.”

“Vote—choose a leader. On the election day, they put urns around
the fountain, one for each candidate. Every free man and woman
puts a pebble in the urn that belongs to their choice. The man who
gets the most pebbles is archon for three years.”

Gwin might have said more, but Briddyn turned and snarled at him
to hold his tongue and hurry.

“Over there, little one,” Gwin said to Taliaesyn in a soft whisper.
“You’ll soon be rid of him.”

The “there” in question turned out to be a narrow, treeless alley that
twisted between back garden walls. As they walked along, the walls
grew lower until they disappeared altogether, and the houses,
smaller and poorer until they degenerated into a maze of huts and
kitchen gardens. Here and there Taliaesyn saw and smelled
pigsties, each holding one or two small, gray-haired pigs. Once, as
they passed a ramshackle hut, a vastly pregnant woman came out
to slop her hogs. When her gaze fell on the prisoner, her face
softened with pity for him. Every other person they met simply
ignored him, the same way that they ignored the half-starved dogs
in the gutters or the gaudy birds in the trees.

Finally the alley gave a last twist and debouched into an open
square where weeds pushed aside sparse cobbles and chickens
scratched, squawking every now and then at the small children who
shared the space with them. On the other side was a high wall,
striped in blue and red and obviously part of a compound. In the
middle was an iron-bound door. Everything made Taliaesyn
uneasy: the thick wall, gaudy but practically a fortification; the stout
door, as heavily reinforced as a Deverry dun. Briddyn glanced his
way and smiled in a peculiarly unpleasant way, then included Gwin
in the gesture.

“Here’s where you two say farewell,” he said in Deverrian.

He made a fist and pounded on the door, over and over until they
heard a voice scream in Bardekian that its owner was on the way.
The door opened a crack, then wider, and a slender, dark boy of
about fifteen, wearing a pale blue tunic, made a low bow to
Briddyn.

“Baruma, master! How can I serve you?”

“Is your father in? I have someone to sell.”

“The barbarian? Oh, he’ll be very interested.”

They followed the lad down a narrow corridor to a long room with a
blue-and-white-tiled floor and dark green walls. At one end was a
low dais, strewn with many-colored cushions, where a fat man with
pale brown skin and black curly hair sat cross-legged before a low
table. When they came in, he looked up from what Taliaesyn took
to be a game played on a circular board.

“Baruma!” He heaved, himself to his feet only to make a deep bow.
“I am honored, honored.” Yet, as he went on, speaking too fast for
Taliaesyn to understand, he seemed far more frightened than
overwhelmed at the honor of entertaining Briddyn.

The two men bargained quickly in shrill voices, waving their hands
around, making dramatic grimaces, seeming to threaten each
other, but always, Taliaesyn noticed, Briddyn won his points. Finally
the slave dealer, whose name turned out to be Brindemo,
unceremoniously ordered the prisoner to strip, then ran his hands
down Taliaesyn’s arms and back, poked his legs like a horse
dealer, and even looked into his mouth. By the end of it, Taliaesyn
was thinking murder.

“Deverrian, are you?” Brindemo said in a reasonably sound accent.
“A dangerous man, then. I speak your ugly tongue. See? One
wrong move or word, and I have you whipped.”

Then he turned back to Briddyn, who took the bill of sale out of the
pouch at his belt and handed it over. Taliaesyn noticed the dealer’s
eyes narrow suspiciously as he looked at it. When they started
speaking again, somewhat slower, Taliaesyn could pick out
phrases here and there. It seemed that Briddyn was suggesting
that the trader sell him to the copper mines in the high mountains of
the southwest or perhaps to the archon’s fleet of galleys. His
stomach cramped in fear at the thought; he remembered enough
to know that slaves sold to those lives died soon—and were glad
to. Brindemo gave him one last look, then returned to Briddyn.

“How much opium have you been giving him, honored master?”

“Not much and not for long.” He went on to say something
incomprehensible that pleased Brindemo, because the fat trader
nodded and smiled.

Coins changed hands, then, close to twenty gold pieces as far as
Taliaesyn could see. Brindemo took the bill of sale, tucked it into
his own pouch, then escorted Briddyn, Gwin, and the mute to the
door while his son held Taliaesyn on a short, tight chain. When the
trader came back, he considered his new slave for a long, shrewd
moment.

“You cannot run away, Taliaesyn of Pyrdon. If you do, the archon’s
men hunt you down—”

“And kill me. I, know that.”

With a little nod, Brindemo unlocked the collar and took it off his
neck.

“This will chafe and leave ugly sores. We must have you look
pretty.”

“And will that matter in the mines?”

“Oho! You understand some Bardekian, do you? Better and better.
The mines? Hah! Baruma leaves on the morrow. He comes
through here, oh, once each year, if that. How will he know where I
sell you? The mines pay a price fixed by law. Barbarians are much
more expensive than that. You behave, show the good manners,
and we sell you to honored home. Sit down. I have an armed man
just outside, in earshot, by the way.”

“I won’t try to escape. I’m too weary, and I don’t even know where I
am.”

Laughing, Brindemo lowered his bulk onto the cushions and
motioned for the prisoner to perch on the edge of the dais. He took
out the bill of sale and studied it, his lips pursed.

“Your name,” he said at last. “Is it truly Taliaesyn?”

“I suppose so.”

“What? Surely you know your own name.”

“I don’t, at that. I don’t remember one blasted thing about my life
until a few weeks ago.”

“What? Were you hit on the head or suchlike?”

“That could be it, couldn’t it? A strong blow to the head makes men
lose their memories at times. But I don’t know. No one told me.”

Brindemo tapped a gold-trimmed tooth with one corner of the bill
while he looked over his purchase.

“Tell me somewhat. Baruma, did he . . . well, hurt you?”

Taliaesyn winced and looked at the floor.

“I see that he did, then. It will make you easy to manage.” Yet there
was a thread of pity under the trader’s cold words. “I do not like to
cross Baruma. Do you blame me?”

“Never.”

“But then, I do not like to cross the archon and the holy laws of my
city.” He studied the bill of sale again. “If I break the law, it is as
painful and perhaps even more expensive than crossing Baruma.”

“That thing is forged, isn’t it?”

“Ah, the opium must be wearing off.” He held the bill up to the light
coming in the window. “It is very cleverly done, very, very
professional, but then, one expects that from Baruma. May he
mistake a candlestick for a cushion and sit upon it! Try to
remember who you are. I perhaps can help you. You have kin and
clan in Deverry?”

“My father was an important merchant there. That much I
remember.”

“Aha! Doubtless, then, he will buy his son back at an honest price if
only he can find him. If. Do your best to remember. I cannot keep
you too long—what if Baruma comes back and asks for you?”

Taliaesyn shuddered, but this time, he despised himself for doing
so.

“I see you understand.” Brindemo gave a shudder of his own. “But
I sell you to decent place if all else fails, and then, when the
beloved father comes searching, I tell him where. Perhaps he
thanks me with hard coin?”

“Of course.” Taliaesyn found it surprisingly easy to lie, considering
what was at stake. “He’s always been generous.”

“Good.” He reached up and clapped his hands together. “We give
you food, a place to sleep.”

At the signal a black-skinned man came through a door near the
dais. Close to seven feet tall, he was also heavily muscled and
wearing a short sword in an ostentatiously jeweled scabbard. Even
without the sword Taliaesyn wouldn’t have been inclined to argue
with someone whose hand was as broad as an ordinary man’s
bead.

“Darupo, bring him something to eat. I’ll wager Baruma’s been
keeping him half starved.”

The fellow nodded, gave Taliaesyn a sympathetic glance, then
disappeared again. While he was gone, Brindemo returned to his
game, moving ivory pegs along tracks in the board in response to
throws of dice much like the ones in Deverry. In a few minutes
Darupo returned with an earthenware bowl of vegetables in a spicy
sauce and a basket of very thin bread, almost like rounds of
parchment. He showed Taliaesyn how to tear off strips of bread
and use it to scoop up the sloppy mixture in the bowl. For all that
the stew was difficult to eat, it was delicious, and Taliaesyn dug in
in sincere gratitude. It occurred to him that feeding him well was a
sound commercial proposition, because buyers would pay more
for a healthy slave than a sick one, but he was too hungry to care
about the ethics of the thing. At his dicing, Brindemo sighed
suddenly and looked up.

“The omens are wrong no matter what I do.” He waved his hands
miserably at the board. “I have this dark feeling in my heart, or
however you Deverry men say it. I might turn a good profit off you,
Taliaesyn of Pyrdon, but I rue the day that the gods brought you to
me.”

A thin drizzle sheeted across Aberwyn’s harbor and turned the
cobbles as slick as glass. Wrapped in his splendid scarlet cloak,
the royal herald scurried across the gangplank to the pier and
made the galley rock behind him. The high prow, a rearing wyvern,
seemed to be bowing to the assembled crowd. Down at the land
end of the pier, Nevyn started forward to greet him, then hesitated,
turning to Cullyn, who was there as head of the honor guard.

“Make sure the marines get something hot to drink as soon as they
reach the dun, will you?”

“Gladly. Poor bastards, rowing half the way from Cerrmor in this
wet.”

Nevyn hurried down to exchange the ritual salutations with the
herald, whose self-control was amazing. For all that he was wet,
exhausted, and rheumy, his voice boomed out on every syllable,
and he bowed with the grace of a dancer.

“I, Orys, come on the king’s business. Who is this who receives
me?”

Nevyn hesitated briefly, then decided that he didn’t truly want to
explain the jest in his name at a time like this.

“I am called Galrion, councillor to the regent, her grace, Tieryn
Lovyan. The king’s justice is ever welcome in Aberwyn.”

“My thanks, good councillor. I see horses have been provided.” He
suddenly smiled, the ritual done with. “Shall we get ourselves out
of this wretched rain?”

“By all means, Lord Orys.”

In the great hall of the gwerbrets of Aberwyn huge fires roared in
both hearths. Standing warrior-straight by the table of honor,
Lovyan was waiting for them, with the red, white, and brown plaid of
the Clw Coc draped over her chair and the blue, green, and silver
plaid of Aberwyn thrown back from her shoulder. When the herald
bowed to her, she acknowledged him with a small wave of her
hand, but this was no time for a curtsy. She was as much lord here
now as ever her son had been.

“Greetings, honored voice of the king. What brings you to me?”

“Grave news, Your Grace.” He reached into his shirt and brought
out a silver message tube. “I have with me a proclamation of the
most serious import.”

Except for the crackling of the fires the hall went utterly,
breathlessly silent. Since the king had kept the contents of that
proclamation a secret from everyone at court, not even Nevyn
knew what it contained. He glanced around, noting the men of both
warbands sitting stock-still at their tables across the hall; the
servants practically frozen in their places; Rhys’s wife at the
staircase, her face pale; Tevylla and Rhodda, slipping in the back
door and hovering there.

“I would be honored, O voice of the king,” Lovyan said, her voice
firm and steady, “if you would read it out to this assembly.”

With a flourish Lord Orys slipped the parchment free of the tube,
laid the tube on the table, and unrolled the proclamation with a
snap.

“Here be it known, in the province of Eldidd as in every province of
our kingdom of Deverry, that I, Lallyn the Second, king by right of
blood and right of sword, do, with full compliance of the laws and
of the priesthood of Holy Bel, take it as my duty to concern myself
with the line of succession of the gwerbrets of Aberwyn, being as
the gwerbretrhyn is both a well-loved and an important part of our
realms. While Rhys Maelwaedd, Gwerbret Aberwyn, still lives, let
no man dare convene the Council of Electors to meddle with the
lawful passage of the rhan to his possible heirs.”

Nevyn’s heart thudded once.

“Furthermore.” The herald paused to clear his throat. “Let it be
known in Eldidd as in all parts of our beloved kingdom that I, Lallyn
the Second, acting under the authority granted to me by Great Bel,
king of all the gods, do hereby disavow and overrule utterly in all its
particulars the pronouncement of the aforesaid Rhys, Gwerbret
Aberwyn, of the ban of clan exile upon his brother, Rhodry
Maelwaedd of Dun Gwerbyn.”

There was a great deal more, but no one could hear it over the
cheering and shouting of the warbands, wave after wave of
approval and laughter. When Nevyn looked through the crowd he
found Cullyn standing at the rear door with Tevylla. In the uncertain
light it was hard to tell, but he thought he saw tears glinting in the
captain’s eyes. Through all the cheers Lovyan stood perfectly still,
her face expressing nothing but a mild relief, a certain pleasure at
the thought that justice had finally been done. Nevyn had never
admired her more.

Much later, when the herald was taking his well-earned rest in the
best guest chamber, Nevyo had a chance to talk with the tieryn
alone, in the reception chamber of her suite. There she could allow
herself a crow of triumph, and she even jigged a few steps of a
country dance upon the Bardek carpet.

“So Blaen won, may the gods bless himl Truly, Nevyn, I didn’t know
what to expect when Orys unrolled that bit of lamb leather.”

“No more did I. So. We have a year and a day to get Rhodry back
here to claim his restoration to the clan.”

Her triumph disappeared, and she sank into a chair like an old
woman.

“Ah, my poor little lad! If only we had you home! Nevyn, by the
gods, you’re hiding somewhat from me. Where is Rhodry?”

“Your Grace, please, trust me. I don’t want to tell you. I beg you:
take my word for it that he lives, and let the matter drop there. I
promise you that the dweonier will do its best to bring him home for
you.”

“I don’t know if I can accept . . . Well, what is it?”

A frightened page came creeping into the chamber.

“Your Grace? Lady Madronna sent me. His Grace is calling for
you.”

Hiking up her skirts like a farm lass, Lovyan ran from the chamber,
with Nevyn close behind. They came into the sickroom to find Rhys
propped up on pillows. His face was a dangerous sort of scarlet,
and his breath rattled in his sunken chest. Over everything hung the
stink of diseased urine.

“Mother!” He had to gasp out every word. “I heard the servants
talking. The misbegotten king’s recalled Rhodry, hasn’t he? Don’t
you lie to me!”

“I see no need to lie to you. Your Grace.” Lovyan came over to the
bedside and held out her hand. He caught it in one of his and
clasped it hard, as if he were drawing strength from her touch.
“Rhys, please, it’s best for Aberwyn. It’s best for the Maelwaedd
clan.”

He made a sound halfway between a snarl and a cough. Deeply
troubled, Nevyn hurried over.

“His Grace shouldn’t vex himself. He should rest.”

“Rest? When the king’s made a mockery of me?” His breathing
was so shallow that it was hard to hear his words, “Why couldn’t he
have waited till I died? He could have done that, curse him.”

“He couldn’t, Your Grace. If you should die without an heir,
Aberwyn would be naught but a bone for dogs to fight over.”

For a moment that seemed to soothe the gwerbret; then he
frowned as if he were thinking something through.

“Where is Rhodry?”

“On his way home, Your Grace.”

“Ah.” He paused a little while, panting, gathering breath, his ribs
heaving under the fine wool coverlets. “He’s not back yet, is he
now? Cursed young cub. He shan’t have what’s mine, not yet.”

“Rhys, please!” Lovyan’s voice shook with tears. “Can’t you forgive
him?”

Rhys turned his head toward her, and the look in his eyes was one
of weary contempt, as if he were wondering how she could
possibly misunderstand something so obvious. Suddenly he
coughed, a choking gurgle, and spasmed, his back arching as he
fought for air. Nevyn grabbed him, slid an arm under his shoulders,
and supported him until he spat the blood-tinged gobbet of phlegm
out. Rhys’s eyes sought out Lovyan’s face.

“But, Mam,” he whispered, “it was mine. Truly it was.”

Then he was gone, with one last ripple of spasming, a cough that
never quite came. By the door Madronna threw her head back and
howled in agony, keened over and over until Lovyan rushed to her
and threw her arms around her to let her sob. Although the tieryn’s
face ran with tears, she was silent. Nevyn closed Rhys’s eyes and
crossed his arms over his shattered chest.

“May peace be yours in the Otherlands, Your Grace,” he
whispered, so softly that the women couldn’t hear him. “But I have
the ghastly feeling that your hatred won’t let you rest.”

He left the women to their grief and went down to the great hall. At
least he could make the formal announcement and spare Lovyan
that grim duty. As he was walking up to the honor table he
remembered the herald and sent a page to wake him. Although
several of the men called out to Nevyn in a friendly way, no one
seemed to notice that he was grim, heartsick not so much for Rhys
as for what his death meant to Aberwyn. They were all too busy
celebrating Rhodry’s recall. Once the drowsy herald was present,
Nevyn climbed up onto the honor table and yelled for silence. The
hall went abruptly quiet, the warbands turning, apprehensive at last,
as they waited for him to speak. Nevyn was in no mood for fine
words.

“Gwerbret Rhys is dead.”

There was a collective suck and gasp of breath.

“Her Grace, Lovyan, Tieryn Dun Gwerbyn, is now regent for her
younger son: Rhodry Maelwaedd, Gwerbret Aberwyn.”

The sound was unmistakable, a would-be cheer cut off out of
respect for the dead, laughter that vanished into coughs and
mumbles, smiles that disappeared into looks of stricken shame.
Poor Rhys, Nevyn thought; I think me I understand you a bit better
now. Yet as he looked over the hall, he wondered with bitterness in
his heart if Rhodry would ever sit in the gwerbretal chair, if his loyal
warbands would ever see again the young lord that they loved.



CHARACTERS AND THEIR INCARNATIONS
A Complete List
643 	696 	718 	773 	835-843 	918 	980
1060s 	1100s
Brangwen 	Lyssa 	  	Gweniver 	Branoic 	  	  	Jill
Madoc 	  	Addryc 	Glyn 	Caradoc 	  	  	Blaen of Cwm
Pecyl
Blaen 	Gweran 	  	Ricyn 	Maddyn 	Maer 	Meddry
Rhodry 	Rhodry
Garraent 	Tanyc 	Cinvan 	Dannyn 	Owaen 	Danry
Cullyn
Rodda 	Cabrylla 	  	Dolyan 	  	  	  	Lovyan
Ysolla 	Cadda 	  	Macla 	Clwna 	Braedda 	  	Seryan
Galrion 	Nevyn 	Nevyn 	Nevyn 	Nevyn 	Nevyn 	Nevyn
Nevyn
Rhegor 	  	  	  	  	  	  	Caer
  	  	  	Dagwyn 	Aethan 	Leomyr 	  	Gwin
  	  	  	Saddar 	Oggyn 	  	  	Ogwern
  	  	  	  	Anasyn 	  	  	  	Kiel
  	  	  	  	Bellyra 	Glaenara 	  	  	Carramaena
  	  	  	  	Lilliorigga 	  	  	  	Niffa
  	  	  	  	Bevyan 	  	  	  	Dera
  	  	  	  	Merodda 	  	  	Mallona 	Raena
  	  	  	  	Peddyc
  	  	  	  	Burcan 	  	  	Sarcyn 	Verrarc
  	  	  	Mael 	  	Pertyc Maelwaedd 	  	Rhodda
  	  	  	Lady Rhodda
  	  	  	  	Olaen 	  	  	  	Jahdo
  	  	  	  	Maryn 	  	  	  	Yraen
  	  	  	  	Elyssa 	  	  	Alaena 	Marka


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GLOSSARY

Aber (Deverrian) A river mouth, an estuary.

Alar (Elvish) A group of elves, who may or may not be blood kin,
who choose to travel together for some indefinite period of time.

Alardan (Elv.) The meeting of several alarli, usually the occasion
for a drunken party.

Angwidd (Dev.) Unexplored, unknown.

Archon (translation of the Bardekian atzenarlen) The elected head
of a city-state (Bardekian at).

Astral The plane of existence directly “above” or “within” the
etheric (q.v.). In other systems of magic, often referred to as the
Akashic Record or the Treasure House of Images.

Aura The field of electromagnetic energy that permeates and
emanates from every living being.

Aver (Dev.) A river.

Bara (Elv.) An enclitic that indicates that the preceding adjective in
an Elvish agglutinated word is the name of the element following
the enclitic, as can + bara + melim = Rough River, (rough + name
marker + river.)

Bel (Dev.) The chief god of the Deverry pantheon.

Bel (Elv.) An enclitic, similar in function to bara, except that it
indicates that a preceding verb is the name of the following
element in the agglutinated term, as in Darabeldal, Flowing Lake.

Blue Light Another name for the etheric plane (q.v.).

Body of Light An artificial thought-form (q.v.) constructed by a
dweomermaster to allow him or her to travel through the inner
planes of existence.

Brigga (Dev.) Loose wool trousers worn by men and boys.

Broch (Dev.) A squat tower in which people live. Originally, in the
Homeland, these towers had one big fireplace in the center of the
ground floor and a number of booths or tiny roomlets up the sides,
but by the time of our narrative, this ancient style has given way to
regular floors with hearths and chimneys on either side of the
structure.

Cadvridoc (Dev.) A war leader. Not a general in the modern sense,
the cadvridoc is supposed to take the advice and counsel of the
noble-born lords under him, but his is the right of final decision.

Captain (trans of the Dev pendaely) The second-in-command, after
the lord himself, of a noble’s warband. An interesting point is that
the word taely (which is the root or unmutated form of -daely) can
mean either a warband or a family, depending on context.

Conaber (Elv.) A musical instrument similar to the panpipe but of
even more limited range.

Cwm (Dev.) A valley.

Dal (Elv.) A lake.

Dun (Dev.) A fort

Dweomer (trans of Dev dwunddaevad) In its strict sense, a system
of magic aimed at personal enlightenment through harmony with
the natural universe in all its planes and manifestations; in the
popular sense, magic, sorcery.

Elcyion Lacar (Dev.) The elves; literally, the “bright spirits,” or
“Bright Fey.”

Ensorcel To produce an effect similar to hypnosis by direct
manipulation of a person’s aura, (Ordinary hypnosis manipulates
the victim’s consciousness only and thus is more easily resisted.)

Etheric The plane of existence directly “above” the physical. With
its magnetic substance and currents, it holds physical matter in an
invisible matrix and is the true source of what we call “life.”

Etheric Double The true being of a person, the electromagnetic
structure that holds the physical body together and that is the actual
seat of consciousness.

Fola (Elv.) An enclitic that shows that the noun preceding it in an
agglutinated Elvish word is the name of the element following the
enclitic, as in Corafolanielim, Owl River.

Geis A taboo, usually a prohibition against doing something.
Breaking geis results in ritual pollution and the disfavor if not active
enmity of the gods. In societies that truly believe in geis, a person
who breaks it usually dies fairly quickly, either of morbid
depression or of some unconsciously self-inflicted “accident,”
unless he or she makes ritual amends.

Gerthddyn (Dev.) Literally, a “music man,” a wandering minstrel
and entertainer of much lower status than a true bard.

Great Ones Spirits, once human but now disincarnate, who exist on
an unknowably high plane of existence and who have dedicated
themselves to the eventual enlightenment of all sentient beings.
They are also known to the Buddhists as Boddhisattvas.

Gwerbret (Dev.) The highest rank of nobility below the royal family
itself. Gwerbrets (Dev gwerbretion) function as the chief
magistrates of their regions, and even kings hesitate to override
their decisions because of their many ancient prerogatives.

Hiraedd (Dev.) A peculiarly Celtic form of depression, marked by a
deep, tormented longing for some unobtainable thing; also and in
particular, homesickness to the third power.

Javelin (trans of Dev picecl) Since the weapon in question is only
about three feet long, another possible translation would be “war
dart.” The reader should not think of it as a proper spear or as one
of those enormous javelins used in the modern Olympic Games.

Lwdd (Dev.) A blood price; differs from wergild in that the amount
of lwdd is negotiable in some circumstances, rather than being
irrevocably set by law.

Malover (Dev.) A full, formal court of law with both a priest of Bel
and either a gwerbret or a tieryn in attendance.

Melim (Elv.) A river.

Mor (Dev.) A sea, ocean.

Pan (Elv.) An enclitic, similar to fola (defined earlier), except that it
indicates that the preceding noun is plural as well as the name of
the following word, as in Corapanmelim, River of the Many Owls.
Remember that Elvish always indicates pluralization by adding a
semi-independent morpheme and that this semi-independence is
reflected in the various syntax-bearing enclitics.

Pecl (Dev.) Far, distant.

Rhan (Dev.) A political unit of land; thus, gwerbretrhyn, tierynrhyn,
the area under the control of a given gwerbret or tieryn. The size of
the various rhans (Dev rhannau) varies widely, depending on the
vagaries of inheritance and the fortunes of war rather than some
legal definition.

Scrying The art of seeing distant people and places by magic.

Sigil An abstract magical figure, usually representing either a
particular spirit or a particular kind of energy or power. These
figures, which look a lot like geometrical scribbles, are derived by
various rules from secret magical diagrams.

Spirits Living though incorporeal beings proper to the various
nonphysical planes of the universe. Only the elemental spirits, such
as the Wildfolk (trans of Dev elcyion goecl), can manifest directly in
the physical plane. All others need some vehicle, such as a gem,
incense smoke, or the magnetism given off by freshly cut plants or
spilled blood.

Taer (Dev.) Land, country.

Thought Form An image or three-dimensional form that has been
fashioned out of either etheric or astral substance, usually by the
action of a trained mind. If enough trained minds work together to
build the same thought form, it will exist independently for a period
of time based on the amount of energy put into it. (Putting energy
into such a form is known as ensouling the thought form.)
Manifestations of gods or saints are usually thought forms picked
up by the highly intuitive, such as children, or those with a touch of
second sight. It is also possible for a large number of untrained
minds to make fuzzy, ill-defined thought forms that can be picked
up the same way, such as UFOs and sightings of the Devil.

Tieryn (Dev.) An intermediate rank of the noble-born, below a
gwerbret but above an ordinary lord (Dev arcloedd.)

Wyrd (trans of Dev tingedd) Fate, destiny; the inescapable
problems carried over from a sentient being’s last incarnation.

Ynis (Dev.) An island.