Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

  Blaen nodded. Nevyn himself was more worried than he wanted to show. Although he could ask the Wildfolk to find the dark master, to do so would expose them to the chance of grave harm. Likewise, he could go out into the etheric in the body of light, but to do so meant risking open battle with his enemies. From piecing together what Jill had told him, he could guess that this dark master had apprentices with him; he simply didn’t know how many. If he should be slain in an astral battle, then Jill and Rhodry would be defenseless against the dark ones, who would doubtless take a horrifying revenge. Although he had called upon other dweomermen for aid, it was going to take days for the nearest one to reach him. By then Camdel might well be dead.

  “Ah, well,” Nevyn said at last. “This cursed mess is just like a game of gwiddbwcl, Your Grace. They have Camdel, their king’s peg, and they’re trying to move him off the board while we place our men and try to stop them. Unfortunately, I’m not sure if the next move is ours or theirs. Jill, come have a private talk with me. I want to hear every detail of the days you spent alone, and there’s no need to bore his grace and Rhodry with it.”

  Obediently she rose, looking at him in a desperate hope that he would keep her safe. Deep in his heart, he prayed that he could.

  As the chamber door closed behind Jill and Nevyn, Blaen drained the rest of the mead in his goblet in one long swallow, and Rhodry had a good slug of his, too. For a moment they looked at each other in an understanding that had no need for words. Rhodry knew perfectly well that they were both terrified. At last Blaen sighed.

  “You’re filthy, silver dagger. Let’s have the pages draw you a bath. I could use some more mead, too.”

  “You’ve had enough drink for one afternoon.”

  Briefly Blaen looked furious; then he shrugged.

  “So I have. Let’s go get you that bath.”

  While Rhodry bathed in the elegant chamber he would share with Jill, Blaen perched on the edge of the bed and handed him the soap like a page. As he splashed around in the wooden tub, Rhodry wished that he could wash all this talk of dweomer away as easily as the dirt from the road.

  “Are you thinking that I’ve got cursed strange taste in women?” Rhodry said at last.

  “You always did. But truly, Gilyan suits you well enough, and the life you’re leading. It aches my heart to see that silver dagger in your belt.”

  “It’s better than starving on the roads. There wasn’t a cursed lot else I could do.”

  “True spoken. I talked with your most honored mother the last time I was at court. She asked me to urge Rhys to recall you, but he wouldn’t listen to a blasted word I said.”

  “Don’t waste your breath again. He always wanted me gone, and like a dolt, I gave him his chance.”

  Rhodry got out of the tub and took the towel Blaen handed him.

  “I have no formal alliance with Aberwyn,” Blaen said. “I can offer you a place here with me. You could marry your Jill and be my equerry or suchlike. If Rhys doesn’t like it, what’s he going to do? He’s too cursed far away to start a war with me.”

  “My thanks, but when I took this dagger, I swore I’d carry it proudly. I may be an exile, but I’d die rather than be an oath breaker, too.”

  Blaen raised one quizzical eyebrow.

  “Ah, by a pig’s cock,” Rhodry sighed. “The truth is, I think it’d be worse, living on your charity, watching the honored guests sneering at Aberwyn’s dishonored brother. I’d rather ride the long road than that.”

  Blaen handed him his brigga.

  “Well, I’d feel the same myself,” he said. “But you’re always welcome here.”

  Rhodry said nothing, out of fear that he’d weep and shame himself. While he dressed, Blaen pulled the silver dagger and fiddled with it, hefting it, testing the edge with his thumb.

  “This thing is sharp,” he remarked.

  “Dishonor or not, it’s the best dagger I ever had. Cursed if I know how the smiths mix the metal for it, but it never tarnishes.”

  Blaen threw the dagger at the firewood stacked near the hearth, the blade whistling straight to the target and biting deep.

  “A splendid blade, right enough. Well, everyone knows that the silver dagger brings shame with it, but I never knew it brought dweomer, too.”

  Although Rhodry knew he was only jesting, the thought struck something in his mind. It was odd, now that he considered it, that first the dweomer had brought him the silver dagger, and then his first summer on the long road had taken him to the dweomer in return.

  “Somewhat wrong?” Blaen said.

  “Naught, truly.”

  And yet he felt his Wyrd call to him, a whistling on the wind.

  Although Salamander had passed through Dun Deverry several times, he rarely stayed long, because the busy streets offered a gerthddyn too much competition. At that time the city was a spiraled maze of streets stretching halfway round Loc Gwerconedd; the largest city in the kingdom, it sheltered nearly two hundred thousand people, all of whom demanded more sophisticated entertainments than a few tricks with scarves. In the open parks and market squares tucked away all over the city, one found gerthddynion and acrobats, minstrels from Bardek, showmen with performing bears or trained pigs, jugglers and wandering bards, all earnestly trying to part the passersby from their coin. In this mob no one noticed another gerthddyn, even one who asked the occasional question about the opium trade.

  Since he was trying to avoid undue attention, Salamander had compromised his standards and was staying at a middling sort of inn in the old part of town along the Aver Lugh, a district of small craftsmen and respectable shopkeepers. The Wheatsheaf had entertainers stayed there, and he could pick up all the gossip there was. Not that hearing gossip about Lord Camdel’s crime was difficult; even though it was some weeks after the theft, the city was still buzzing over it.

  “They say that the king’s sent messengers to every gwerbret in the kingdom,” Elic the innkeep remarked that afternoon. “What I want to know is this: How does one man slip through all those warbands and suchlike?”

  “He might be dead,” Salamander said. “Once the news got out, every thief in the kingdom was probably keeping an eye out for him.”

  “Now, that’s true spoken.” Elic considered, sucking on the edge of his long mustache. “He might be, at that.”

  There was one patron of the Wheatsheaf who kept pretty much to himself, for the simple reason that he was a Bardek man who spoke little Deverrian. Enopo was about twenty-five, quite dark of skin, and he wore no face paint, which meant that his family had kicked him out of their house and clan for some reason. He was wandering the Deverry roads with a wela-wela, a complex Bardekian instrument that lay flat in the performer’s lap and had some thirty strings to be plucked and strummed with a quill. Since he knew Bardekian quite well, Salamander had been cultivating the minstrel, who was pathetically glad to find someone who knew his native tongue. At the end of their performing day they would meet back in the tavern room to compare their take and complain about the niggardliness of the folk in the richest city in the kingdom.

  That particular day Salamander had done remarkably well, and he stood them a flagon of fine Bardek wine. When they settled into a table by the wall to drink it, Enopo savored each sip.

  “A fine vintage,” he pronounced. “Ah, but it brings back bitter memories of home.”

  “So it must. Here, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but—”

  “I know.” He flashed Salamander a grin. “Your storyteller’s heart is aching with curiosity about my exile. Well, I don’t care to go into all the details, but it had to do with a married woman, very highborn, who was far too beautiful for the ugly and old rich man she married.”

  “Ah. It’s not an uncommon tale.”

  “Oh, no. Far from it.” He sighed profoundly. “Ugly or not, her husband had great influence with the archons.”

  For a moment they drank in silence while Enopo gazed away as if he was remembering the bea
uty of his dangerous love. Salamander decided that if Enopo would tell him the reason for his exile, he now trusted the gerthddyn enough for Salamander to make his next move.

  “You know, wine isn’t the only fine thing Bardek produces,” the gerthddyn casually remarked. “When I visited your lovely and refined homeland, I enjoyed a pipe or two of opium.”

  “Now, look.” The minstrel leaned forward. “You want to be very careful with the white smoke. I’ve seen men become so degraded over it that they’ve sold themselves into slavery just to ensure they got more.”

  “Really? Ye gods, I didn’t know that! Will just a pipeful every now and then do that to a man?”

  “Oh, no, but as I say, you’ve got to be very careful. It’s like drink. Some men can drink or go dry; others turn into sots. But the white smoke has a stronger pull than drink ever can.”

  Salamander pretended to be considering this carefully while Enopo watched with a slight smile.

  “I know what you’re thinking of asking me, gerthddyn,” he said. “And I don’t know anyone who has the stuff for sale.”

  “Well, if it’s as dangerous as you say, it’s doubtless for the best, but I was wondering.”

  “From what I understand, in fact, it’s only the noble-born men in this city who use it.”

  “Indeed?” Salamander sat bolt upright. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From a man of my people, a merchant, who came through here about—oh, a month ago, I guess it was. He looked me up for my father’s sake, just to see if I was well and all, and he gave me some money my brothers had sent, too. We had a fine dinner with lots of wine.” He turned briefly wistful. “But at any rate, old Lalano and I were talking, and he mentioned the white smoke. Merchants back home were starting to sell it to Deverry men, he said, just now and again. He was troubled about it, because the trade’s disreputable enough back home, and he knew it was against your laws here. So as we talked about it, it occurred to us to wonder who would have the money to buy smuggled foods.”

  “Who but the noble-born, true enough.”

  “Or an occasional rich merchant, maybe, but these so-called lords of yours are certainly good at keeping a merchant poor.”

  Now, isn’t this interesting? Salamander thought to himself. If Camdel had been smoking opium, it would certainly explain how the dark dweomermen had gotten their claws into him. He decided that over the next few days he’d do a little discreet asking around, as if he were interested in buying the stuff himself. At that point he felt the little tug on his mind that meant some other dweomer-person was trying to contact him. Casually he stood up.

  “Excuse me a moment, Enopo. I’ve just got to go to the privy out back.”

  With a wave of his hand the minstrel dismissed him. Salamander hurried out and went round to the stable yard, where a watering trough stood, catching the late sun. He stared into the dappled water and opened his mind, expecting to see Nevyn. Instead, Valandario’s beautiful but stern face looked up at him. He was too startled to think anything to her.

  “So there you are,” she said. “Your father’s asked me to contact you. He wants you to ride home straightaway.”

  “I can’t. I’m running errands for the Master of the Aethyr.”

  Her storm-gray eyes widened.

  “I can’t tell you what, exactly,” he went on. “But dark and dangerous deeds and doings are—”

  “Less chatter, magpie! I’ll tell your father you’ll be delayed, then, but come home as soon as you can. He’ll be waiting down by the Eldidd border, near Cannobaen. Do not disobey him this time, please.”

  The image of her face vanished. As he always did when confronted by his old teacher in dweomercraft, Salamander felt profoundly guilty, even though this time he’d done nothing wrong.

  At dinner that night Blaen insisted on treating his cousin as an honored guest. Every time a page called him “my lord,” Rhodry winced, and hearing a servant use one of his old titles, Master of Cannobaen, brought tears to his eyes. All this well-meant courtesy only made him think of his beloved Eldidd, her wild seacoasts, her vast oak forest, untouched since time immemorial. He was profoundly glad when he and Jill could take their leave of the gwerbret’s table and go to their chamber.

  By then it was late, and Rhodry was more than a bit drunk and much more tired than he cared to admit. While he struggled to pull off his boots, Jill opened the shutters at the window and leaned out, looking at the stars. Candlelight danced shadows around her and made her hair gleam like fine-spun gold.

  “By every god and his wife,” Rhodry said, “I wish you’d left that cursed bit of jewelry in the grass when you saw it there.”

  “And a fine lot of good that would have done. What if the dark master had found it?” “Well, true spoken. I guess.”

  “Oh, I know, my love.” She turned from the window. “All this talk of dweomer aches my heart, too.”

  “Does it, now? Truly?”

  “Of course. What do you think I’m going to do? Leave you for the dweomer road?”

  “Uh, well.” All at once he realized that he’d been afraid of just that. “Ah, horseshit, it sounds stupid now that I hear you say it aloud.”

  She looked at him, her mouth slack as if she were debating what to say next, then suddenly smiled. She bent down and held out her hands to something, then picked up what he assumed was her gray gnome and cradled it in her arms.

  “Is somewhat wrong?” she said. “No? Good. Did you just come to see us, then? That’s sweet, little creature.”

  Seeing her speak to something that he couldn’t see yet knew existed was eerie, troubling him further. As he watched her in the candlelight, he was remembering being a tiny lad, and thinking that maybe the Wildfolk were real, and that maybe he could see them. At times, when he was out in his father’s hunting preserve, it would seem that maybe there was an odd creature peering at him from under a bush or up in a tree. Yet even as a very small child, Rhodry had dismissed the Wildfolk as only something his nurse spoke about to amuse him. His hard-bitten father had made sure that his son had no trace of whimsy about him.

  “Here’s Rhoddo,” she said. “Say ‘good eve’ to him.”

  Rhodry felt a little hand clasp his finger.

  “Good eve,” he said, smiling. “And how does our good gnome fare?”

  All at once he saw it, a dusty sort of gray, with its long limbs and warty nose. It was grinning at him while it held his fingertip in one spiky hand. Rhodry caught his breath in a gulp.

  “You see him, don’t you?” Jill whispered.

  “I do, at that. Ye gods!”

  Jill and the gnome exchanged a smile of triumph; then the creature disappeared. Rhodry stared openmouthed at her.

  “I asked Nevyn this afternoon why you couldn’t see the Wildfolk,” she said, as calmly as if she were discussing what to serve her man for dinner. “And he told me that you probably could, with that trace of elven blood and all. Being around the dweomer will open his eyes, he said.”

  “And right he was.” He sat quietly, remembering. “Over the past week, you know? I’ve seen—well, not them, exactly—but things.”

  “There’s been dweomer all around us for weeks.”

  “True spoken. But why is it so important to you that I see the Wildfolk?”

  “Well, it could come in handy.” She looked away, suddenly troubled. “They’ll take messages and suchlike, if we get separated again.”

  There it was again, the truth that he didn’t want to face: there was dark dweomer stalking them. He drew her tight into his arms and kissed her passionately, just to drive his fear away.

  After their lovemaking Rhodry slept like a dead man for most of the night, but toward dawn he had a dream so troubling that he woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in the bed. The chamber was gray with dawn, and Jill was still asleep beside him. He got up and put on his brigga, then went over to look out the window, just to chase the feeling of the dream away. When someone tapped on the door, he yelped aloud, b
ut it was only Nevyn, slipping into the chamber.

  “Here, lad, I was wondering if you had any strange dreams last night.”

  “By the great god Tarn himself! I did, at that.”

  With a drowsy yawn Jill sat up and looked blearily at them.

  “Tell me about the dream,” Nevyn said.

  “Well, I was standing a night watch at the gates of some small dun. Jill was inside, and I had to guard her. Then this swordsman came up to the gates, and he wouldn’t answer me when I called for the password. He was taunting me, calling me every low name I ever heard and throwing my exile in my face. I’ve never been so cursed furious in my life. So I drew, and I was going to challenge the bastard, but then I remembered that I was on guard, so I held my place at the gate. Finally I thought to call for the captain. Here’s the cursed strange part. When the captain came running, it was you, with a sword in your hand.”

  “So it was.”

  “Oh, now, here!” Jill chimed in. “Did Rhodry have a true dream?”

  “More true than most,” Nevyn said. “You know, Rhodry, you’ve got a lot of honor in your heart if you’ll hold to it even in your sleep. The dream was showing you a true thing by using a fancy like in a bard’s song. The dun was your body, and the man you felt yourself to be was your soul. That swordsman was one of our enemies. He was trying to lure your soul away from your body, because when a man’s asleep, his soul can slip out into the Inner Lands. But if you’d gone after him, you would have been fighting on his ground, and a very strange place it is. He would have won.”

  “And what then? Would I have been dead?”

  “I doubt it.” Nevyn thought for a moment. “Most likely he would have trapped your soul and taken your body over for himself. You would have felt like you were dreaming the whole time, you see, while he had it under his control. Humph, I wonder who he wanted to kill: me or Jill? Maybe both. Either way, eventually you would have woken up to find yourself with a bloody sword in your hand and one of us lying dead at your feet.”