“We’re being followed,” he said. “Come walk with Dovina and Mavva. My men will guard the rear, and I’ll join Gurra at the front.”
As he did so, she noticed that he’d laid his hand on the hilt of his finesword. A glance back showed her that the bodyguards were following his example. Hild’s warning about her knife took on sudden meaning.
Possibly because of the precautions, they reached the guesthouse without incident. Once they were safely inside, Merryc remarked that he’d seen the spy before.
“He’s an attendant at the Temple of Bel,” Merryc said. “I’m not sure if he’s a novice or only a servant, but he opened the door when I went there recently, running an errand for my uncle.”
“Huh!” Dovina said. “These priests aren’t very good at snooping, are they?”
“They’re too used to having everything their way,” Mavva said. “Well, or so my betrothed tells me.”
“No doubt he’s right,” Merryc said. “Alyssa, when you want to return to the embassy, my bodyguards will go with you.”
* * *
Merryc left the company of the ladies and hurried off to join his uncle. That the Advocates Guild would welcome Alyssa and Dovina so warmly was something Verrc would want to hear. He found another guest there ahead of him, His Holiness Argyn, servant of Bel, priest of the Most Holy Shrine to the Great God that stood upon the estate of Clan Daiver. Since he was attached to a shrine, not a temple, Argyn wore ordinary clothes, a shirt under a waistcoat, gray breeches stained green in spots from his garden, boots instead of sandals. He did, however, wear the tiny silver sickle of his office hanging from his belt. A tall man with a pronounced belly, he settled himself in a chair with a comfortable sigh and accepted a tankard of dark beer.
“What the high priest doesn’t know,” Argyn said, “won’t keep him awake at night.”
“Just so,” Verrc said with a grin. “How are things at the farm?”
The members of Clan Daiver tended to refer to their estate as the farm, being as it was one.
“Very well, Your Grace. The first roses are blooming in front of the shrine, and I’ve been planting some cabbages and other greens in my kitchen patch.”
“Good. While you’re here, will you be joining your brethren at the temple?”
“I already have this morning early, when we place the garlands on the statues. Important ceremony, though you should hear the neophytes sneezing in the morning chill. They’re not used to bare legs yet.”
“And then you joined them for the morning meal?”
“I did, the usual oatcakes and an egg or three.” Argyn considered the gwerbret over the rim of his tankard. “What’s all this, Your Grace? You don’t usually care where I get my feed.”
“I’m hoping you had a chance to pick up some gossip about—oh, various things.”
“Ah.” Argyn grinned and had a long swallow of ale. “I’m guessing it has summat to do with this matter of the law courts.”
“You’re good at guessing, Your Holiness.”
Verrc nodded at Merryc to give him permission to speak.
“I’ve had some news about the goings-on out west,” Merryc said. “Priests dressing up as merchants. A man knocked on the head and dumped into a river.”
“Indeed. The news reached us, too. I heard some talk about that this morning. Wmm’s priests have been sending letters around. They’re right enough when they say it’s a disgrace to every priesthood, not just ours.”
How much of a disgrace? Merryc wondered. Argyn owed Clan Daiver a great deal, including freedom from the closed temple life that he hated, but there were limits to any man’s loyalty when the gods had a prior claim on him.
“Murder tends to be disgraceful,” Verrc said. “Especially when the killer’s sworn to uphold the laws.”
“Oh, the killer would have been found outside of the temple and paid for,” Argyn said. “I’ll wager that the fellow who did the hiring was turned out of our Cerrmor temple last year, when His Holiness took over. Still a dishonor to the priesthood. I mentioned I’d come to town at your behest, Your Grace. The head priest would like me to come back to temple for dinner with him after our visit. For a chat, he said. What do you say to that idea?”
“I’d say it’s a good one,” Verrc said. “He must have heard the talk that’s going around. The holy blade harvests more coin than it does truth—that kind of remark.”
“Indeed.” Argyn paused, thinking. “The Lawspeakers are a priesthood within the priesthood. Some forget who’s the trunk and who the branch.” He held up one hand flat. “Not all, mind, some.”
“Understood,” Merryc said. “When there’s an important hearing, who chooses the Lawspeaker?”
“Omens, of course.” Argyn paused for a grin. “Omens need interpreting, however, and His Holiness Tauryn does that. He’s a good man, but he has to be careful. He can’t insult important men by keeping them shut up in the temple all the time. The Prince Regent’s hearing, now? I’m less than fond of the brother they’re sending for that. It will be interesting to hear how well he does.”
* * *
While Alyssa was visiting the Advocates Guild, Cavan occupied himself by remembering the rituals of the Iron Brotherhood. Some marked the initiation and progress of the membership; others marked the installation of new officers; a third type marked the seasons of the year and the phases of the moon. Together they occupied several evenings a month, and after each the brothers met to discuss the business of the lodge—raising funds for injured ironworkers and their families, finding apprenticeships for children who had no interest in working metals, and the like. Most brothers hurried through the rituals as just so much showy ceremony, but Cavan had loved them. He could feel the power that flowed through the lodge when the ritual was in progress, power that mostly went to waste, but power nonetheless.
Rather than merely thinking about them, he found, he could recreate snippets of them in his mind—not the entire long procedures, but certain pieces of the ritual that had particularly impressed him. He sat bolt upright in a chair at the cottage and imagined himself sitting in the ritual chair assigned to the Sword of Fire while he spoke pieces of the ritual aloud or merely pictured someone else taking part.
At first his mind wavered from the imaginary ritual to the noises outside as servants walked past the cottage or birds chirped and the like. But as time passed, the inner world began to seem more real than all the distractions around him. He could smell the smoke of the ritual fire, hear words spoken by the misty figures around him, and yet he never slept. Part of him remained aware of his body, the light in the little chamber, and the feel of the chair under him. The rest of him, however, had drifted far away to the ritual tent in the fields outside Lughcarn and the fire that burned during each working.
The smoke! He could smell it so clearly that he was on his feet and standing before he even knew what had alarmed him. Pale gray smoke swirled in the little room. He rushed to a window and flung it open, then turned and ran into the bedroom. No fire. He saw not the slightest glint of flame and light. Nothing in the main room, either, and with the window open, the smoke had mostly fled.
From outside he heard excited voices calling out in Bardekian. Someone pounded on the door. Expecting a servant, he opened it to find himself face to face with Markella, the ambassador’s wife, accompanied by one of her women. Behind her stood two menservants carrying buckets of water.
“There’s no fire,” Cavan said.
“So I see,” she said. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course, my lady.” He bowed to her.
Markella dismissed the menservants, who dumped the water onto a flower bed and trotted off. With her chaperone following, she led Cavan to the little garden. Vastly pregnant as she was, Markella sat on a small bench with the serving woman standing behind her. Cavan knelt on one knee on the grass nearby.
“I can’t think of any clever way to lead up to this,” Markella said. “So, were you working dwimmer just now?”
“What? I wasn’t! I know naught about it, well, except for the things we did in Lughcarn. I mean, I belonged to this group, you see, that did charity things among the ironworkers, and we also met for, well, I suppose you’d call them rituals.”
“I suppose I would, indeed. And?”
“Well, just now I was merely remembering some of them. I’m an exile, you see, and lost my standing at the lodge. But it all still means a great deal to me.”
“That smoke. We all smelled it.”
“Well, fire was part of our ritual. The smelting, you know, and working with iron. My title was Sword of Fire. I can tell you that much, but—”
“No need to reveal secrets. But did you call that smoke up?”
“I couldn’t have. I don’t know how. I was just remembering it.”
Markella considered him for a long moment. She looked thoughtful, not angry or unkind. He felt a sudden flare of hope.
“Uh, my lady? What makes you ask?”
“I have a bit of talent that way. And there are—well, let’s just say that these things send messages to someone who can hear them. I’d picked up summat, and then Olanna here came running to say the cottage was on fire.”
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to alarm everyone.”
“It’s quite all right. Are you studying with someone?”
“I’m not. I was told I shouldn’t, that I’m unfit.”
“By whom?”
“Rommardda of the North.”
Her eyebrows quirked. “A woman worth listening to, certainly. But I wonder. I suspect you’ve got too much talent in these things to ignore.” She rose from the bench. “You need to be trained. I can’t promise you anything, but who knows? Let me send her a letter, shall we say? I’ll ask.”
“I’d be very grateful.”
“Don’t be. An untrained talent is a danger in more ways than one, so at the worst she just might want a working done that would close everything down for you. Are you willing to risk that?”
“I am. I’d risk anything to learn more. I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life than learning about —” he could not quite force himself to use the word dwimmer “— these things.”
She smiled. “Good answer. I’ll also warn you that her decision will outrank mine. But let’s just see.”
Markella and her serving woman hurried away. Cavan rose and stood watching as they left the garden. For the second time in a few short days, he felt hope mingled with raw fear.
CHAPTER 11
AFTER SOME DISCUSSION BETWEEN the regent’s royal councillor and the mayor of Cerrmor, the hearing concerning the feud on the western border took place in the Justice Hall of the Cerrmor civic broch, a larger room than the justice chamber in the prince’s little-used town house. Since the regent presided thanks to the mayor’s courtesy, the usual title given to such things, malover, was laid aside, but the prince’s decisions would have the force of royal law behind them. Before the proceedings began, a crowd of the curious assembled, but between the escorts of the nobility and the prince’s bodyguards there were precious few seats left.
As part of Lady Amara’s retinue, Dovina had arrived early. Their combined rank gave them good seats off to one side, close enough to the front for Dovina to be able to see. When she looked over the crowd, she saw Alyssa also off to one side, standing with Master Daen of the Guild. She must have visited the marketplace, because she’d bound her hair back with the flowered scarf of a married woman. With her rumpled skirt and plain tunic, she looked like a market woman herself, very much the commoner. Thank the Goddess I went to the collegium, Dovina thought. I’d never have paid her the least attention if I hadn’t.
Before any of the men, lords and commoners alike, were allowed to enter the Hall of Justice they were required to disarm. With a clatter and a fair amount of grumbling, those who carried arms put their swords and daggers on long tables guarded by the regent’s sworn men. Once everyone was seated, the mayor, golden sword in hand, climbed the steps up to the dais. Accompanied by his councillor, two guards, a priest of Bel, and Merryc, the Prince Regent came through a small door at the back of the dais, nodded to the mayor, and acknowledged the crowd with a wave of his hand. A few cheers rang out, hastily suppressed when Prince Gwardon scowled.
“This hearing is now open,” Mayor Eddel said. “Under the jurisdiction of the High King in the person of his regent, Prince Gwardon Maryn.” With a flourish Eddel handed the prince the Cerrmor Sword of Justice.
“My thanks,” Gwardon said.
Eddel bowed and retreated to a corner. Merryc left the dais and found a place to stand near the door. The bodyguards stepped back. The bare-legged priest, dressed in his traditional tunic with a silver sickle at his belt, came forward and blessed the sword. The prince knocked the pommel thrice upon the table, then laid the sword down crosswise in front of him. The prince and the priest took chairs behind the table. The watching crowd fell silent except for one last cough and sniffle from the back.
“Your Holiness, Lawspeaker,” Gwardon said to the priest, “is it just that even the highest lords in the land are subject to the laws of the gods?”
“It is both just and right, Your Highness.” The priest had a deep voice that rolled through the entire room.
“Well and good, then. I have a matter to lay before you. The town heralds have proclaimed that Gwerbret Ladoic has granted the bounty on a certain silver dagger. Are we, the gwerbret and I, correct in thinking that the person of this man and of the one who claimed the bounty are now inviolate?”
“Until such time as the bounty has been paid over, that is quite correct. It’s an ancient tradition with the force of law.”
“But not law itself?”
Curse him! Dovina thought. What’s he trying to do? Undermine everything?
“Not law, perhaps, my prince, but the ancient traditions run very deep and strong. In such cases, they must be obeyed.”
“I see. You have my thanks.”
Don’t curse him after all, Dovina thought. This will be blessedly useful! The royal councillor leaned forward and murmured something. Gwardon and the priest both nodded their agreement.
“Done, then,” the prince said. “Now. Two matters have been laid before me. The first is the question of disputed lands between Gwerbret Standyc of Pyrdon and certain magistrates of the people known as the Westfolk. By treaty Gwerbret Ladoic of Aberwyn is entitled to represent them and will do so when we reconvene on this matter.”
On the word “reconvene” whispers spread in the crowd. The prince half-rose from his chair. The whispers stopped.
“We have received messages that two Westfolk magistrates wish to attend any discussion of that case to advise the gwerbret. Hence the delay.” Gwardon spoke to the priest but loudly enough for the crowd to hear. “Today we will adjudicate on a graver matter. We call Gwerbret Standyc and Gwerbret Ladoic to come stand before the Sword of Justice.”
Anyone of a lesser rank would have been required to kneel, but strict procedure tended to loosen in the presence of gwerbretion. The laws had long since recognized that insulting men of that rank was a good way to turn a legal proceeding into an outright brawl. Standyc and Ladoic walked up to the dais, bowed deeply to the prince and the priest, and then stood at either end of the long table.
“My thanks,” Gwardon said. “We are here to investigate one grave and unclean crime: the taking of the head of Gwarl, son to Gwerbret Aberwyn, after a battle upon Pyrdon roads.”
Noise broke out—gasps, whispers, outright oaths in the crowd. The prince allowed it to continue for a few moments before he silenced it.
“The charge has been laid,” Gwardon continued, “that the captain of Gwerbret Standyc’s warband committed this crime against our laws
and those of the gods.”
Standyc stepped forward fast.
“He did it at my orders, Your Highness,” Standyc said.
“Your orders? Were you on the road that day?”
“I was not. I had spoken earlier in my great hall, saying that if ever I or any man in my service had the chance to bring me the head of one of Ladoic’s sons, I would want it done and want to see the proof of it.”
Dovina glanced around. The people in the crowd sat in dead silence, but their faces—disgust, horror. Lady Amara had laid her hand over her mouth. Mavva leaned forward a little in her chair, all attention.
“That was an evil day,” Prince Gwardon said.
“So it was,” Standyc said. “But—so if there’s fault found, let it come to me, not him.”
“If there’s fault? Ye gods, how can you say that? Don’t you know the sacred laws against such a—”
“Let me explain.” Standyc raised a hand flat for silence as if the prince were but a commoner. “Your Highness, I beg you. Let me give you my reasons, and then judge.”
“Very well.” The prince sat back in his chair and listened with his arms crossed over his chest.
“They sent my son Griffydd home to me wrapped in linen in a wooden coffin, just slung into a wooden box. He was only a third son, born after some daughters, but in some ways he was my favorite. His wits were sharp, sharper than most men’s twice his age, and he was a great lad for a jest, always merry, unless someone’s plight touched him. He was always ready to offer his aid to any who needed it. He truly wanted to study for the priesthood. I never had to bully him into it. He loved learning, Your Highness.” Standyc’s voice quivered, but he cleared his throat and went on. “So, he came home in the coffin. My lady and I both wished to see him one last time, so we had the servants unwrap his body.”
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