Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

  “And then he started screaming that it would be better to die fast than slow,” Bocc broke in. “He grabbed his dagger, so we jumped him, and me and a couple of the lads got him here about the time the city wardens shows up. After he tried to jump out the window, we tied him to the bed, but he went on raving and yelling about wanting to die.”

  “Ah, I begin to understand,” Nevyn said. “Then at first light he turned suddenly calm.”

  “Just that.” Hope dawning, Ogwern sat up, revealing that he was fully dressed under the blankets. “It was so sudden that it was like a fever passing off.”

  “Exactly, but it wasn’t a fever, but a poison. Now, here, Ogwern, you must have an enemy in town who put a particular herb in your drink: oleofurtiva tormenticula smargedinni.” Nevyn rolled off this imposing name with a flourish. “Fortunately, your bulk saved you from a fatal dose. This poison unbalanced the humors, giving the victory to the hot and moist over the cold and dry, which support the rational faculties. That’s why you wanted the blood, you see, to slake your humors. Then, as the body feels the poison work, the mind can’t understand what’s occurring and can’t take rational steps to combat it, and thus the clever poison doubles its own effects.”

  “Ye gods!” Ogwern whispered. “Fiendish, good sir.”

  “You must guard yourself very carefully from now on. For the residual poison eat only cool, dry foods for two weeks, cracker bread, apples, the white part of fowl, taken cold. This will cleanse the humors.”

  “I will, good herbman. Ye gods, what a close call!”

  Since he wasn’t dying after all, Ogwern got out of bed and insisted on giving Nevyn a copper piece for the consultation.

  “It’s a pity in a way that I’m not ill,” he said gloomily. “Now I’ll have to face the beastly gwerbret this afternoon. Now, listen, Jill, say as little as possible. Stick to the tale about being only my bodyguard and leave the rest to me.”

  “We spent hours on this story,” Bocc put in. “It’s a beauty, it is.”

  When they left, Nevyn insisted on going to the temple of Bel down by the river, so that he could put Ogwern’s stolen coin into the cauldron of donations for the poor. As they walked along, Jill kept nervously looking around, half expecting that enemies would spring out of the walls.

  “Nevyn, how did the dead man’s shade get that poison into Ogwern’s ale?”

  “What? Oh, here, I can lie just as well as a silver dagger if you believed all that nonsense. I just made up the medical lore on the spot to ease Ogwern’s mind. He needs to be on his guard, but I couldn’t tell him the truth, because he wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “You mean it’s not a real poison?”

  “It’s not. The name’s in the ancient Rhwman tongue, and it means ‘emerald-colored little torment for fat thieves.’”

  “Then what did happen?”

  Nevyn glanced around at the riverbank. Down by the water’s edge were a couple of boys, guarding the cows that grazed there. Otherwise they were alone on the common.

  “The dead man was working on Ogwern’s mind the way he tried to work on yours,” Nevyn said. “I doubt if he would have driven you to suicide, because if he had, Blaen would have taken your effects into custody, and then they wouldn’t have had a chance to get the opal. But he did want to torment you, to make you suffer. Since there’s somewhat of a link between us, I could set seals over you from a distance, but there was naught I could do for our poor thief until I got here. I’ll make sure he has a peaceful night tonight.”

  “But what about the chickens? It sounds so stupid, talking about chicken blood.”

  “Not at all. Freshly spilled blood gives off a certain substance that the shade needed. He could have fed off that substance to strengthen himself.”

  Jill felt so ill that it must have shown on her face, because Nevyn laid a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you see why I glossed the matter over for Ogwern with a babble of comforting words? Ah, ye gods! Never did I wish such evil things to come upon you. I’ve tried to leave you alone to work out your Wyrd in your own way, but now your Wyrd seems to have driven you right into danger.”

  “So it seems. Was it truly my Wyrd that brought me here?”

  “Let’s put it this way—it was sheer chance that brought you to that dead horse in the Auddglyn, but it was your Wyrd that showed you the gem in the grass. If the Wildfolk didn’t trust you, you never would have seen it. Now, let’s get back to the dun. I’m not going to say one word more out here in public.”

  It was about two hours after noon when Rhodry finally reached the south gate of Dun Hiraedd. He dismounted, then led his two horses through a small crowd of farmers, carrying produce and chickens to the daily market. Lounging just inside the gate were a pair of city guards. As he passed by, he noticed one mutter something to the other; then they stepped forward and blocked his way. Out of the shadow of the wall stepped two more; one caught the horses’ reins, the other his sword arm.

  “Silver dagger, are you? No trouble, now, lad, but you’re coming with us.”

  “What in the hells is this?”

  “His grace’s orders, that’s what. ‘Keep watch for a silver dagger who looks like an Eldidd man and bring him long.’ We’ve had enough trouble in town lately from your kind.”

  “What’s Jill done?”

  “Oh, you know her, do you?” the first guard said with an unpleasant grin. “She seems to have somewhat to do with a man who got himself killed, that’s what. His grace should be holding malover right about now, so we’ll take you right along.”

  Rhodry was too worried to protest when the guards disarmed him. As they marched through the streets, he kept a sullen silence. He’d been hoping to avoid Blaen, who (or so he thought) doubtless despised him as a dishonored outcast, and now he was faced with the prospect of seeing him again only to beg for Jill’s life. And what’s Jill done? he thought. If I get her safely out of this, I’m going to beat her black-and-blue! In the ward of the dun, the guards turned their horses over to a page, then shoved him inside the broch. Rhodry hadn’t been inside Dun Hiraedd for two years, when he’d come for Blaen’s wedding. He looked around dazed at the great hall where once he’d dined as an honored guest; then the guards hustled him up the spiral staircase to the second floor. The heavy oak doors of the chamber of justice stood open, and he and the guards stepped just inside and waited.

  In the curve of the wall, under a rank of windows, Blaen sat at a table with a scribe at his left hand and two councillors at his right. Since there were no priests in attendance, Rhodry could tell that this was merely some sort of hearing, not full malover. Kneeling on the floor in front of the gwerbret were Jill, a couple of unprepossessing young men, and an enormously fat fellow. Wardens stood about with quarterstaves in their hands. In the corner where the curved stone wall met a wickerwork partition sat Nevyn in a half-round chair. Rhodry felt profoundly relieved, knowing that the old man would never let Jill come to harm.

  “Very well, Ogwern,” Blaen was saying. “I admit that the dead man’s threats were sufficient for you to want a bodyguard.”

  “It was most horrible, Your Grace,” the fat fellow said. “And a poor but honest innkeep like myself has no time to train with a blade.”

  “Even a porker should have tusks.”

  “His grace is ever a quick man with his jests, but I’d rather hire tusks than grow them. Truly, the silver dagger was an excellent bargain, seeing as the nasty fellow actually drew on me.”

  Blaen nodded, then glanced at Jill.

  “Well, silver dagger, I begin to think you were justified in drawing first blood.”

  “My thanks, Your Grace, and truly, I had no way of knowing that the fellow was going to poison himself.”

  At that peculiar statement Rhodry forgot himself enough to step forward. With an oath the guards grabbed him and pulled him back. Blaen turned toward the interruption.

  “Bring him forward. So you caught this miserable lout of a
silver dagger, did you?”

  “Riding in the south gate as bold as brass, Your Grace,” said a guard. “And he’s got a Western Hunter with him that I’ll wager is stolen.”

  “No doubt. He always was too fond of other people’s horses.”

  Although Blaen was trying to suppress a grin, Rhodry caught him at it.

  “Blaen, you bastard!” Rhodry snapped. “This is one of your cursed jests.”

  Although everyone in the room gasped at the insult, Blaen burst out laughing and rose, striding across the chamber to grab his cousin’s hand.

  “Well, so it is. I thought we’d have a laugh by arresting you like the silver dagger you are. Ah, by the gods, it gladdens my heart to see you.”

  As they shook hands, Rhodry felt like weeping.

  “It gladdens my heart to see you, too,” he said. “But what are you doing with my woman?”

  “Naught, I assure you. I’ve got more honor around women than some of my kin I could mention.”

  With a grin Rhodry punched him on the shoulder. Everyone in the chamber was staring at them, and Blaen suddenly remembered that he had a judicial proceeding on hand.

  “Go stand with old Nevyn, will you? Let’s finish this blasted thing up.”

  When Rhodry did so, Nevyn gave him a thin, dry smile, but the old man’s eyes were deeply troubled. Rhodry found out why when the warden stepped forward to give evidence about a stranger who took poison rather than face the gwerbret and who wore some sort of witchcraft talisman around his neck. Blaen considered the matter for a moment, announcing that he found no fault with anyone over the death, then closed the hearing.

  “Doubtless Dun Hiraedd is better off without him,” he said cheerfully. “So that’s that.”

  Ogwern and his witnesses rose, bowed to the gwerbret, then made a frank dash for the door. As the puzzled councillors gathered around Blaen to ask questions about the poisoning, Rhodry strode over to Jill and caught her by the shoulders.

  “Ye gods, my love! What is all this?”

  “I don’t truly know. Rhoddo, you can’t know how much it gladdens my heart to see you.”

  When he threw his arms around her and pulled her close, he felt her shaking with fear. Since he’d never seen her afraid of anything before, he felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

  “Well, my love,” he said, “we’ve ridden together in some hard battles before. We’ll win this one, too.”

  “You better be right. That’s all I can say.”

  His back against a birch tree, Alastyr sat very quietly on the ground and tried to stay calm. He had just tried to scry Jill out and had seen nothing at all, no matter how hard he bent his will to the task. It could mean only one thing: Nevyn had arrived to put a seal over her. When he heard hoofbeats coming his way, he jumped to his feet, half thinking that the Master of the Aethyr was riding for him, but it was only Sarcyn, dismounting near the camp, then leading his horse into the trees.

  “Back so soon?” Alastyr said.

  “I didn’t linger in town. The place was full of gossip, about this shabby old herbman who’d just ridden in and seemed to have some influence with the gwerbret.”

  Alastyr swore with every foul oath he knew. Sarcyn merely stood and watched him impassively till he finished.

  “How tired is your horse?” Alastyr said. “If we’re going to pull this chestnut out of the fire, we have to have some place to hole up for a while. We can’t go on camping like brigands on the road. This morning I went out on the etheric and took a good look around the countryside, and I think me I’ve found a perfect place.”

  “I’ll ride one of the fresh horses and put Camdel on mine. He’s a fair bit lighter than I am.”

  “Very well. Get him ready. I’ll saddle my horse myself. We’ve got to make all speed.”

  No bard or gerthddyn had ever had a more attentive audience than Nevyn had that afternoon, and he couldn’t resist playing up to it. In Blaen’s private chamber, a plain little room that held a hearth, five chairs, Blaen’s shield, and nothing more, Rhodry, Jill, and the gwerbret himself sat and watched him as he stood by the hearth and lounged against the mantel. After the inevitable mead had been served and the page sent away, Blaen gestured at him with his goblet.

  “Here, good sorcerer,” the gwerbret said firmly. “You owe me an explanation of this matter.”

  “So I do, Your Grace, and you shall have it. Jill, give me that bit of jewelry you’ve got in your pouch.”

  When she handed him a cheap ring brooch, he laid it on his palm and held it out for all to see, then thought a brief instruction to the spirits attached to it.

  “This, Your Grace, is called the Great Stone of the West.”

  “That ugly thing?” Blaen sputtered.

  At that precise moment the stone shapechanged, glowing, wavering, seeming to dissolve. Suddenly an enormous opal, the size of a walnut, lay in Nevyn’s hand. It was so beautifully polished that its surface gleamed, catching the light from the window and turning it to fire in its deep-running veins, while a rainbow of iridescence played upon it. When his audience gasped aloud, Nevyn could feel how smug the spirits were. They were a higher type of spirit than the Wildfolk, of the order commonly called planetary spirits, though their connection is not with the actual planets themselves, but rather with the forces the planets represent.

  “Oh, ye gods!” Jill said. “Is that what I’ve been carrying around?”

  “This is its true form. There are spirits who guard it, you see. They can cast illusions over it when they have to, and also move it around—not far, but enough to hide it when there’s danger. Our unlovely enemies didn’t realize those two things, and that’s why we’ve managed to thwart them so far.”

  Nevyn let everyone chew over this information while he slipped the stone into the pouch at his neck. The spirits sighed in relief, an audible sound in his thoughts, at being close to him again. Several times Blaen started to speak, then thought better of it. Finally the dweomer-master nodded politely at him, giving the gwerbret permission to speak in his own dun.

  “And who, good sorcerer, are these enemies?”

  “Men who follow the dark dweomer, of course. You’ll notice, Your Grace, that I keep saying ‘our’ enemies. You see, this gem belongs to the High King himself, and the dark dweomer wants it to work him and the kingdom harm.”

  Blaen and Rhodry swore aloud in rage. Though one was the honored lord, and the other the dishonored exile, they’d both sworn oaths of personal fealty to their liege.

  “The king lives in the middle of the best fortress in all Deverry,” Blaen snapped. “How could they steal from him?”

  “With great difficulty. I suspect that they’ve been plotting this for a very long time indeed. The opal is one of the greatest dweomer-gems the world has ever seen. About a hundred years ago a certain dweomerman shaped it and asked spirits to inhabit it, then gave it to the royal line.” Nevyn sighed a little, just remembering the long hours it had taken him to polish and grind the thing into a perfect sphere. “I’m forbidden to tell you all its powers, as I’m sure you’ll understand. To keep it safe, various dweomermen are appointed as its guardians. When one of us dies, another takes its place. It’s now my turn to hold that post.” There he almost slipped and said, “my turn again.” “The secret of the gem is passed down from king to Marked Prince, and so the kings know enough to guard it well. They keep it within their own chambers, not the royal treasury. No thief would have a chance to bribe outright the loyal men and women who have access to the royal apartments, of course. There are, however, more ways to work on a man’s mind than gold. Here, Your Grace, and Rhodry, too, did you ever meet a man named Camdel at court?”

  “I did,” Blaen said. “The Master of the King’s Bath, wasn’t he? A proud sort of fellow, as I remember, but the queen seemed to favor him for his well-spoken ways.”

  “He was an arrogant bastard,” Rhodry broke in. “I won a mock combat from him once, and he sulked all day.”

  “That
’s the man,” Nevyn said. “He’s the younger son of the gwerbret of Blaeddbyr. I’m afraid his arrogance was only one of his faults, but still, he doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him. The dark dweomermen have taken him over, mind and soul, and they’ve been using him like a farmer uses a mattock—to dig out a stone.”

  “What?” Blaen said. “I can’t imagine Camdel stealing from his liege!”

  “Of his own will he never would have, Your Grace. Now, I still don’t know how the dark dweomermen got in touch with him. I have a friend who’s up in Dun Deverry right now trying to find out. But once they did get a hold over him, Camdel had no control over his own actions, none. I’ll wager that the last few months have all seemed like a dream to him, one long, confused waking dream that ended in a nightmare.”

  “So,” Blaen said, and there was a growl in his voice, “my sword and my warband are at your disposal, good sorcerer. Do you know where these men are?”

  “I don’t, and here, Your Grace, you see the limits of the dweomer. I can keep these poisonous dolts from scrying me out, but alas, they can do the same to me.”

  Blaen shuddered at all this talk of scrying and dweomer. Although Nevyn disliked telling so many secrets, he truly had no choice. For all he knew, he might need to take Blaen up on his offer of the warband.

  “Until this morning,” Nevyn went on, “they couldn’t have been more than a day’s ride from Dun Hiraedd, but for all I know, they may be fleeing for their lives. If I catch them, I’m going to wipe them off the face of the earth for this.”

  “Well,” said Blaen, thinking, “if we split the warband into squads, we can start scouring the countryside. Some farmer or suchlike must have noticed if peculiar strangers have been riding around the rhan.”

  “It may come to that, Your Grace, but I’d like to hold off for a while. Because of Camdel, you see. If this dark master should scry out your men riding his way—and the dolt is bound to be keeping such a guard—then he’ll just slit Camdel’s throat and ride out fast. If I possibly can, I want to pull our young lordling out of this alive. I have a few more tricks at my disposal, too.”