Sword of Fire

by Katharine Kerr

I know. Hush.

  Ddary and Waryn left on their errands. Benoic sat down on the floor with a sigh and ran his hands through his hair. I perched on a rickety wooden chest that stood by the unglazed window.

  “My apologies,” he mumbled.

  “For what? That piss-poor excuse for nobility threw some nasty taunts. I’m not surprised you took them to heart.”

  He looked up with a twisted little smile. “He wanted me to draw on him. If I hanged, he’d never have to deal with me again. I’m just cursed glad Ddary stopped me.”

  “So am I. My apologies for choosing this inn.”

  “It’s the only decent one in town. I should never have let Ddary shame me into coming with you.”

  “True. But here we are. I suggest you stay indoors till it’s time to rejoin the caravan.”

  He nodded his agreement and returned to staring at the floor, as intently as if he were counting the straws on it.

  “I assume,” I said, “that Aeryn must be visiting at Lord Marc’s dun.”

  “No doubt. Visiting his betrothed.”

  He reeks of hurt, Cathvar remarked. Females!

  Indeed. “Let me guess,” I said aloud. “He had reason to be jealous of you.”

  Benoic raised his head and stared at me, his mouth working.

  “What went missing?” I continued. “But here, I should hold my tongue and not pry! Forgive a nosy old woman!”

  “Huh.” He managed a smile. “A nosy old woman who happens to know a lot of powerful lore, I’d say. The thing was a piece of the daughter’s jewelry, a little silver brooch. I’d saved my wages to buy it for her at the spring fair.”

  “That’s an odd thing for you to have stolen.”

  “True spoken, and that’s what saved my hand from the executioner’s axe. Lord Marc’s a fair-minded man. When they found the brooch in my saddlebag, he said that if I’d bought it, I had the right to take it back, because Yvva had gotten betrothed to another man.”

  “Who found it? Lord Aeryn?”

  “You’ve got sharp wits, good dame.”

  “And I’ll wager he had no idea you’d given it to her. He must have been bitterly disappointed.”

  “He made a great show of wondering how I’d gotten hold of it. Threatened to break off the betrothal if another man had been in her chamber.”

  “So Marc kicked you out to save the match?”

  “Just so.”

  “Not as fair-minded as all that. I pity your Yvva, married off to a stoat.”

  “She could have turned him down.”

  Could she? I doubted it. The match must have brought her father some advantages, if he’d been willing to shame one of his loyal men for so little reason. No doubt he’d given her no choice. For the hundredth time in my life, I thanked the Goddess that I wasn’t noble-born. Benoic might have told me more, but Waryn returned with the cups, and Ddary with two flagons, a big one of dark ale and a small one of Bardek wine.

  “The innkeep’s lad is bringing up fresh bread,” Ddary announced, “and a rack of mutton for us, and a leg for Cathvar. Raw, I told them, for the leg.”

  “Excellent!” I said.

  Splendid! Cathvar said. This fellow has some good qualities after all.

  More than a few, mayhap, despite the rough way about him.

  That evening, when the men and Waryn slept, and Cathvar drowsed at the foot of my bed in our chamber, I lay awake considering Benoic’s story and the fate of Lady Yvva. I wondered if she approved of her arranged marriage. The nosy old woman that I am would have liked to get a look at her, but on the morrow the caravan would ride on westward and take us with it. Unless somehow or other we met the lady and her father on the road—not likely, unless I put some effort into creating a coincidence.

  It’s possible, if you know the ways of the dweomer lore, to make certain things attract each other as if they were a lodestone and a bit of iron. It’s a matter of astral currents, of directing their flow here and there. Now, if I had no right to meddle, the dweomer would fail. If I did have the right, I’d get to meet the lady some way or another, if not on this trip, then when I passed through Bryn Tamig on my way home.

  The rain came down hard in the night. The day, however, dawned clear and warm. We rejoined our caravan and headed west for the pass. About a mile out, Graun the caravanmaster rode up next to me. He pointed uphill to our right.

  “Lord Marc’s dun,” he said.

  Well-built stone walls surrounded what appeared to be a large complex. Over the walls I could see the tops of several tall stone towers clustering around an even taller central broch.

  “Very impressive,” I said.

  “It is, but the tavern gossip told me that he’s heavily in debt.”

  “Indeed? And is his daughter betrothed to a wealthy man?”

  “So the townsfolk I met told me.”

  “Gossip about the noble-born is always splendid entertainment. Especially for the folk in these small towns.”

  “As good as bard song, truly.” Graun grinned at me. “Marc’s so poor that he’s sold off half the dun’s furnishings, they told me. Aeryn has a rich vein of silver on his clan’s lands up in the hills. He’s leased it out to some of the Mountain Folk. They pay him a goodly fee every year.”

  “I see. How did Marc end up in poverty?”

  “Most lords out here are always short up for coin. But in his case, his second son ran up huge gambling debts, and the lord felt honor-bound to pay them off after he sent the lad into exile.”

  “Ah, so the marriage is important to his lordship, then.”

  Like an omen a silver horn rang out. The heavy wooden gates to the dun began to creak open. Graun turned his horse into the open road and began to call for a halt. Through the opening in the dun gates I could just make out a group of riders.

  “Get the mules to one side, lads,” Graun yelled. “The noble-born will want the road!”

  In a swirling confusion of mud and brays and oaths the caravan got itself moved over just as the gates held steady. The horn sang out again as the riders walked their horses through the gates and out onto the hillside path that led down our way. A hawking party, it turned out to be, and sure enough, a lovely dark-haired lass in a white, gray, and blue tartan riding habit rode sidesaddle among them. I cackled in glee like a hag.

  Before they joined the main road, the noble-born paused their horses off to one side in order to allow the muleteers to settle their stock. Lord Aeryn and a stout older man sat on horseback at the head of their party. Since the older fellow wore brigga in the white, gray, and blue tartan, he was noble-born and most likely the lady’s father, Lord Marc. Lady Yvva rode next to him. Behind them came three pages, carrying hooded hawks, a groom, a couple of servants riding mules, and a cager struggling along behind. I could see that Aeryn was talking, not that I could hear him. Lady Yvva smiled and nodded at intervals as she idly surveyed our caravan. All at once her face flushed, then turned pale. She’d seen Benoic. I turned in the saddle and saw that the silver dagger had gone tense and still. He might have been carved out of wood, like a rider-figure in a temple of Epona.

  Lord Aeryn had seen him, too. He spurred his horse and headed straight for us at a trot.

  Time for a jest, Cathvar said.

  Before I could say him nay, the leopard rose up in his peculiar saddle and growled. Aeryn’s horse bucked straight up. His lordship went flying into the rain-filled ditch beside the road. Freed, the horse kicked out, then leapt the ditch and raced across the meadow with the groom chasing after. Cathvar lay back down again and began to lick a paw as if nothing had happened. The servants hesitated, just briefly, but they did hesitate before dismounting and running over to help Aeryn out of the ditch. Not a popular fellow, though an extremely muddy one, he yelled and blustered as he scrambled back to the road. I looked for Lady Yvva and saw that she’d clasped a h
and over her mouth. I could just see enough of her aura to know that she was honestly distressed for his sake. So! She liked the marriage well enough—or the wealth it would bring her.

  “You!” Aeryn pulled his sword and pointed it at Benoic. “You did that on purpose.”

  The muleteers all broke out laughing, partly at the very thought, and partly because duckweed festooned Aeryn’s beautiful sword. Lord Marc was grinning and trying not to laugh as he rode over to join Aeryn. Apparently he enjoyed seeing his pompous son-in-law taught a little lesson. I urged my horse out of line and joined them.

  “I hardly think we can blame anyone but that cat beast,” Marc said. “Good dame, is it yours?”

  “He is, your lordship,” I said. “I’m afraid he was startled by a stranger’s fast approach. He’s perfectly tame. I’m sure all the men on the caravan will vouch for that.”

  “They wouldn’t be traveling with him if he wasn’t, truly.” Marc leaned down to speak to Aeryn. “Mount up behind me, and we’ll go back to the dun. You could use a bit of a wash.”

  Aeryn shook his head no. He pulled the duckweed off his sword and threw it on the ground. “I want that animal killed! I’ve been dishonored, and I demand—I—ah, curse it!” He was trying to sheathe the sword, but mud or suchlike had clogged the scabbard.

  “Now, here,” Marc said. “It’s a rare beast and doubtless valuable. The caravan’s moving on and taking it away.”

  “Besides,” I said, “you’re the one who frightened him. He’s my guard, and you were riding straight for me.”

  “I wasn’t riding for you, but that cursed silver dagger!”

  Lord Marc swung his head around and for the first time noticed Benoic. No matter what his daughter felt, Marc winced so painfully that I knew he regretted sending Benoic away.

  “Why?” I spoke to Aeryn. “To admit, perhaps, that you’re the one who stole that brooch and put it into his gear?”

  Caught utterly off-guard, Aeryn froze. He stared up at me wide-eyed but said not a word. I turned to the older lord and smiled in an apologetic way.

  “I’ve heard the tale from Benoic,” I said. “I’d be curious to hear what you think of it.”

  “Now, here!” Marc snapped. “I don’t discuss such things on the open road.”

  “Not in front of a pack of commoners? Would his lordship prefer to hold a hearing in his chamber of justice?”

  “Hold your tongue, you old crone!” Aeryn set his hands on his hips in a gesture meant to be defiant, but his soaked clothing made a squelching sound and spoiled the effect. A gobbet of mud slid from his hair down his cheek. He swore and wiped it away.

  Marc scowled first at him, then at me. “I’ve no reason to doubt Lord Aeryn’s word that he found the brooch in Benoic’s saddlebag.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it, either. Especially if his lordship put it there.”

  Aeryn squalled.

  “Whatever makes you think that?” Marc said, and he sounded so surly that I figured he’d had doubts all along. “Admittedly, someone else might have done so, a servant or suchlike. There’s no reason to suspect Lord Aeryn.”

  “Oh, but there is! My dear Lord Marc, who else would have had access to your daughter’s chamber? Would her maid have dared touch her box of trinkets?”

  From behind me I heard Ddary whoop in delight. Marc looked at me, then looked at Aeryn. “Well?” Marc said. “I can’t believe that a noble-born man like you would lie about this. Could she be right?”

  Aeryn snarled under his breath, a nastier little sound than ever Cathvar’s growl could be. “I was sick to my guts of seeing that—that—commoner staring at my betrothed.”

  “Indeed?” I said. “Or did she have a habit of returning those stares?”

  Aeryn’s face flushed scarlet. “None of your affair, you old crone! What matters is, I wanted him gone!”

  “You might have challenged him honorably,” I said. “Or is he a better swordsman than you?”

  Aeryn spun around and stalked off down the road in the direction of Lady Yvva and the pages, who all still waited where they’d halted. Lord Marc gave me a twisted grin.

  “Benoic could have beaten him in a trice,” Lord Marc said with a sigh. “I fear me I’ve been a fool.”

  I arranged my best sad smile. “Or too honorable, my lord, to see dishonor in another noble-born man.”

  “A nice balm for my wound, good dame, but naught more. My thanks. May I have a word with your silver dagger?”

  “By all means.”

  When I motioned to Benoic, he rode up next to us. He made a half-bow from the saddle to the man whom he’d once sworn to serve.

  “I owe you an apology,” Marc said. “Yvva will be going to her husband’s dun in three days’ time. Will you return to mine and your old position, Captain?”

  Benoic squeezed his eyes shut for a few brief moments, then shook his head no. He looked the lord full in the face. “I’ve been a dishonored man and a silver dagger. Nothing will ever take that away, my lord.” He smiled, a tight cold gesture of pure rage that belied his next words. “I’d only shame you if I rode with your warband again.”

  “I’d not see it that way.”

  “I would,” Benoic said. “My thanks, but I’ll ride the road the gods have given me.” With that he clucked to his horse, turned it around, and trotted back to the end of the line.

  Marc started to speak, then merely shrugged. He nodded my way, then called out to the caravanmaster, “You may have the road. We’re returning to the dun.”

  Yet the lord’s party waited while the caravan got itself moving again, all except for Aeryn. The groom had retrieved the lordling’s horse, and Aeryn was already riding up the hill to the dun. Once the caravan began filing past, Lady Yvva urged her horse up close to our line of march.

  “Benno!” she called out. “Benno, forgive me!”

  Benoic said not one word, nor did he turn in the saddle to look her way. She raised a gloved hand to her eyes and wept.

  For the rest of that day, and when we camped at night, Benoic spoke to no one but Cathvar. Even then, all he said was, “my thanks.” I hoped that he might unburden himself to me, but he never brought the matter up, not once during our long ride to Haen Marn.

  At the ferry to the island we parted. I paid the lads their hire, and they rode off on their long road. Some months ago, that was, and I’m still at Haen Marn, though the gods only know where the lads are now. At times, when I take a moment’s rest from copying out the book I found, the one about healing injuries from fire, I think of Benoic and hope that he fares well.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Katharine Kerr lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, his caregiver, and a cat. Although she spent her childhood in a Great Lakes industrial city, she became a confirmed Californian at age nine, when her family relocated there. She’s the author of the Deverry series of epic fantasies, the Nola O’Grady series of light-hearted contemporary fantasy, the “Runemaster” duo, and a few science fiction works, mostly notably SNARE. Her website is www.deverry.com

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