Daggerspell

by Katharine Kerr

  “My lady’s sore troubled,” Medylla said.

  “I am. It was stupid of Rhodry to ride off into nowhere like that.”

  They nodded their agreement. Dark-haired and delicate Dannyan, blond and homely Medylla were both in their late thirties, noble-born friends rather than servants, who twenty years ago had chosen to take Lovyan’s service rather than marry the unsuitable men their fathers had picked out for them. Shrewd women both, they were her councillors, and Lovyan knew that no matter how much intrigue might rage around a powerful court, she could count on both for absolute honesty.

  “I rather find myself missing Tingyr tonight. It’s so rare that I do, but as a husband he had his good points.”

  “He understood matters of war, truly,” Dannyan said.

  “So, Dann, you don’t think these so-called bandits are real bandits?”

  “I don’t. I was wondering if we should send a message to Sligyn.”

  “That’s a very good idea. We can send one of the stable lads. The young rider who just came back must be dead tired.”

  Lovyan was about to call Caradoc when she heard a clatter in the ward—men and horses riding in, and servants shouting as they ran to meet them. Half thinking it might be Rhodry, Lovyan rose from her chair, but it was Sligyn who strode into the great hall, and right behind him came Nevyn.

  “Well, fancy that!” Lovyan said. “My lord, I was just going to send you a message.”

  “No doubt, Your Grace.” Sligyn bent his knee in a bob that passed for a kneel. “Our good herbman here’s been telling me that Rhodry went off like a madman to chase bandits. Bandits? Hah!”

  “I just happened to see them on the road, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “I was gathering valerian root out in the wilderness.”

  “Could have been cow dung for all I care,” Sligyn snorted. “What counts is that you had the wits to ride straight to me. Your Grace, I’ve had troubling news beyond what our Nevyn tells me.”

  Lovyan realized that armed men were filling the hall—twenty, thirty, close to forty, most of Sligyn’s warband.

  “Dannyan, send a servant to fetch those men ale,” Lovyan said. “Nevyn, come have mead with us. I think me you’ve earned it.”

  Once they were settled, Sligyn told his tale. Not twenty minutes after Nevyn came in with his news, a messenger arrived from Lord Edar, whose demesne was in the north close to Corbyn’s, to announce that Corbyn and his allies had mustered their army. Edar himself was sending his wife and children to shelter with her brother in the east, and he and his warband would be joining Sligyn in Cannobaen.

  “He’ll arrive in two days. The messenger was going to ride on to you, but I decided to take the news on myself. I took the liberty of sending it along to the rest of your loyal men. Thought we didn’t have any time to waste.”

  “My thanks,” Lovyan said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the men to ride messages, anyway.”

  “So Nevyn told me, and a grim thing that is, eh? Here, Your Grace, if an army had turned up at your gate, how long could you and the servants have held Dun Cannobaen?”

  “Long enough for you to relieve us, my lord, but I’m glad I don’t have to put that boast to the test.”

  “Just so.” Sligyn had a thoughtful sip of mead. “Well, the rest of your allies should ride in on the morrow. I told them to ride at night if they had to. We’ll leave you a good fort guard before we go.”

  “Will you ride north after Corbyn?”

  “West, my lady. Rhodry’s out in the wilderness with what? Fifty men and whatever excuses for guards that merchant had. Corbyn’s mustered at least two hundred men, and I’ll wager he’s on his way west right now.”

  Lovyan bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  “Don’t distress yourself unduly, Your Grace,” Nevyn broke in. “Later, I’ll have a few interesting things to tell you.”

  “My lord,” Aderyn said. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I swear I’m telling the truth.”

  Rhodry felt like grabbing the man by the shoulders and shaking him. For an hour now, he’d listened to so much talk of dweomer that he felt as if the strange words and stranger tales were water that would physically drown him. He turned to Cullyn, sitting beside him at the campfire in the ward. In The dancing firelight, the silver dagger’s impassive face was unreadable.

  “I’d believe him, my lord,” Cullyn said. “Didn’t he tell us about the ambush? For that matter, didn’t he tell us that you were on the way?”

  “True enough. Well and good then, Aderyn, if you say that Sligyn’s coming with an army, then we’ll stay here and wait for him.”

  “My thanks, my lord. If I might make a suggestion, on the morrow you might want to have some of your men cut down trees to barricade that gap in the walls. Dregydd has some axes left from his trading.”

  “Good idea,” Rhodry said. “By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, I feel like such a dolt!”

  “His lordship is nothing of the sort,” Aderyn snapped. “That trap was very well laid, and you had no way of knowing that Loddlaen was using dweomer to put thoughts into your mind. It’s just a very good thing that Loddlaen had no way of knowing about Nevyn.”

  Rhodry shuddered profoundly.

  “But there’s one small thing I don’t understand,” Aderyn went on. “Why didn’t Corbyn have his whole army out here to wait for you?”

  “Simple,” Cullyn broke in. “If he’d marched west with his full force, every lord in the north would have seen him, and they would have mustered and followed him straightaway. But he and his allies could slip a few men out, a couple at a time, no doubt, and then follow with the rest. If his worm-riddled plan had worked, he would have been a full day’s march ahead of Rhodry’s allies. Oh, they’d have caught us on the road, sure enough.”

  “They might catch us here instead,” Rhodry said. “Aderyn, do you know how close Corbyn is?”

  “I don’t, but if his lordship will excuse me, I intend to find out.”

  For a while Rhodry and Cullyn sat together in a companionable silence and watched the leaping fire. All around them, the men slept, rolled up in their blankets. For all that Cullyn was a dishonored silver dagger, Rhodry found his presence comforting. Here, at least, was a man he could understand.

  “It’s passing strange. I’ve heard of your glory, of course, and I’ve always wanted to meet you, but I was thinking it might be under better circumstances than this.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, my lord. I couldn’t think of a better time for you to ride my way.”

  Rhodry laughed.

  “True enough. Huh, if the caravan hadn’t sent a messenger to me, I suppose Loddlaen would have sent one of his men, claiming to be a guard or suchlike. You just spared him the trouble by sending your lad.”

  “My lad?” Cullyn gave him a grin. “Here, my lord, Jill’s my daughter.”

  “Oh, ye gods! Here I rode with her all day, and I never once thought she was a lass.”

  Sometime later Jill came to sit with her father. She’d apparently washed her face and hair in the stream, because the dirt was gone, revealing a face that was not only obviously female but beautiful. Or, at least, it would be beautiful if it weren’t for the black-and-blue bruise on her face.

  “Where did you get that bruise?” Cullyn said to her.

  “You gave it to me this morning.”

  Cullyn winced.

  “Well, so I did. Forgive me, my sweet. I was half to pieces, thinking you’d be slain.”

  Jill turned to Cullyn and gave him a smile that turned her beauty as delicate and glowing as that of any court lady. Rhodry’s heart sank. It was more than unfair of the gods to give a lass like this a father who happened to be the best swordsman in the whole wide kingdom of Deverry.

  All morning the tieryn’s loyal men mustered at Dun Cannobaen. Following Sligyn’s orders, they’d ridden fast, leaving their provision carts to follow at their own slow pace, under the guard of the common-born spearmen that their various towns
owed them in time of war. Nevyn sat off to one side of the great hall and kept an eye on Lovyan as she greeted first Lord Oledd, then Peredyr, then Daumyr, and finally Manydd, who was the captain of the warband stationed at Dun Gwerbyn. At last over two hundred men were crowded into the great hall. Lovyan was taking the strain well, greeting each leader calmly. The only emotion she allowed herself was the occasional outburst of wrath at the rebel Corbyn, a wrath that was fit for a tieryn. About an hour before noon, Sligyn rose to his feet and announced that they had enough men to set out.

  “The lads from farther away will ride in tomorrow,” Sligyn announced to all and sundry. “But we can’t wait, eh?”

  When the lords nodded their agreement, Nevyn could see tension on their faces. Just how many of those vassals would indeed arrive, and how many go over to the rebels? Only the final count of the muster would answer that question. Lovyan named Sligyn cadvridoc until the army should meet up with Rhodry, and in a bustle of talk and the jingle of mail, lords and the warbands alike got up and began filing out of the hall. In the confusion, Nevyn hurried to Lovyan’s side. She led him back to the hearth for a few private words.

  “Does Rhodry still live?”

  “He does. Aderyn contacted me naught but an hour ago. There’s no sign of trouble so far today. With this army coming, it would behoove Corbyn to withdraw to safer territory. No doubt Loddlaen will advise his lord to do so.”

  After so many years of hearing him talk of dweomer, Lovyan took this news calmly. Nevyn himself, however, was seriously concerned about the depths of the evil into which Loddlaen had fallen.

  “Which would you rather have me do? Stay with you, or ride with the army?”

  “Ride, of course, and not just for the sake of my feelings. I keep remembering what you said to me the first time we met, when Rhodry had that terrible congestion of the lungs. Rhodry’s Wyrd is Eldidd’s Wyrd, you told me.” Lovyan paused, watching armed men swagger out the door. “I love Eldidd even more than my son. Keep him safe for her.”

  Although the army was traveling light, there were packhorses in the rear carrying a few days’ provision to tide it over until the carts caught up. Since as far as anyone knew, Nevyn was an herbman and nothing more, he rode in the rear as well, with his pack mule behind him. Up at the head of the line, Sligyn set a fast pace, alternately walking and trotting. Although with their late start they would never reach Rhodry by nightfall, Sligyn intended to get to him as early as possible on the morrow. Nevyn was glad of the speed for his own private reasons. Aderyn, of course, had told him who was waiting at the ruined dun. Soon, if all went well, just on the morrow, he would at last see his Brangwen again.

  “I wish we could cremate him,” Jennantar said in a thin, flat voice. “But there’s no wood and no sacred oil.”

  “A grave will do,” Calonderiel said. “He’s dead, my friend. It won’t matter one cursed jot to him what we do with his flesh.”

  Jennantar nodded in miserable agreement and went on digging Albaral’s grave. Jill kept an eye on him as the two men of the Westfolk worked, sweating in the hot sun as the narrow trench grew deeper and deeper. The night before, Jennantar had been so hysterical with grief that Aderyn had given him a strong draught of sleeping potion. Now he seemed merely light-headed and a little sick, like a man who had drunk too much mead the night before. At last they were done; they threw the shovels to one side, then picked up Albaral’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and laid him in. For a moment all three of them stood in respectful silence for the dead. All at once, Jennantar tossed back his head and howled with rage. Before either Jill or Calonderiel could stop him, he drew his knife and made a shallow gash on his forearm.

  “Vengeance!” he screamed. “I’ll have blood to match mine for this!”

  Jennantar held his arm over the grave and let the blood drip, spattering the blanket.

  “I witness your vow,” Calonderiel said softly.

  Jennantar nodded and let the blood run. Suddenly Jill saw or thought she saw Albaral’s shade, a pale blue flickering form, something just barely visible in the sunlight. She was afraid she would choke, afraid she was going daft. Jennantar howled out a wordless cry, then ran blindly away, crashing into a thicket of trees far downstream. The shade, if indeed it had ever been there, was gone.

  “We’d best leave him alone with his grief,” Calonderiel said. “Ill fill this in.”

  “I’ll help.” Jill took a shovel gladly; she wanted to forget what she might have just seen.

  When they were finished, they went back to the dun and found an open spot by the back wall where Calonderiel could work at straightening the arrows he’d salvaged from the battlefield. The Westfolk had a special tool for that, the shoulder blade of a deer pierced with a hole just the diameter of a shaft.

  “We didn’t bring a lot of arrows with us,” he remarked. “I never dreamt we’d be riding into the middle of a war. Are there any good fletchers in this part of the world?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never shot a bow myself.”

  Calonderiel frowned down at the mangled fletching on the arrow in his hands. His eyes were a deep purple, as rich and dark as Bardek velvet.

  “I might as well cut them off. Curse it—I’ve left the proper knife in my gear.”

  “Borrow this.” Jill drew her silver dagger. “It’s about as sharp as you’ll find.”

  He whistled under his breath and took the dagger from her. When he ran one finger down the flat of the blade, the weapon glowed with a light strong enough to be visible even in the daylight.

  “Dwarven silver!” he said. “You don’t see a lot of this around, do you?”

  “What did you call it?”

  “Dwarven silver. Isn’t that what it is? Where did you get this, anyway?”

  “From a smith named Otho on the Deverry border.”

  “And this Otho was a short man.” He gave her a sly grin. “But stocky for all his lack of height.”

  “He was. Don’t tell me you know him!”

  “Not him, truly, but his people.”

  Jill was too puzzled by the way her dagger was behaving to wonder about Otho’s clan. She took it and turned it this way and that to watch the light playing on the surface. In her hands, it was much dimmer.

  “I’ve never seen it glow like this.”

  “It’s because of me. Otho’s folks don’t care for the likes of me. They like to know when one of us is around, because they think we’re a pack of thieves.”

  Jill looked up sharply.

  “Elcyion Lacar,” she whispered. “Elves.”

  “Call us what you like,” he said with a laugh. “But we’ve been given those names before, true enough.”

  One at a time, like slow raindrops falling into a still pond, Wildfolk manifested around him, a blue sprite, two warty gnomes, the thick shimmer of air that meant a sylph, as if they were hounds, come to lie at their master’s feet.

  “And what’s the true name of your people, then?”

  “Oh, now, that’s somewhat I’ll never tell you. You have to earn the right to hear that name, and of all your folks, Aderyn’s the only one who has.” Calonderiel smiled, taking any insult from his words. “Now, I’ve heard some of the tales you folk tell about us. We’re not thieves, and we’re not demons from hell or closer to the gods than you are, either, but simple flesh and blood like you. Old Aderyn tells me that our gods fashioned us from the Wildfolk, just like your gods fashioned you from animals, and so here we are, together on the earth for good or ill.”

  “Here, our priests say the gods made us from earth and water.”

  “The dweomer knows a fair bit more than priests; remember that well. May I have the borrowing of that dagger again? I’ve got a wretched lot of work to do.”

  Jill handed it back. For a long time she sat and watched it glow like fire in his hands, while she wondered over the strange things he’d told her.

  Toward noon, Jill saw the great silver owl circle the broch and disappear inside, a sigh
t that made her shudder. She ran after it and found Cullyn and Rhodry talking together at the foot of the stairs. In a few minutes Aderyn came down, swinging his arms and flexing his shoulders like a man who’s just swum a very long way in a strong sea.

  “I found them, my lord. They’re staying in camp about fifteen miles to the northeast.”

  “Well and good, then,” Rhodry said. “We might as well ride out and meet Sligyn.”

  “That might be unwise, my lord,” Cullyn broke in. “They won’t risk besieging the dun with an army coming at their back, but they might make a desperate ride to catch you if you were out in the open.”

  “And how will they know if we—oh, by every god and his wife, what a dolt I am! Of course they’ll know.”

  “You know, silver dagger,” Aderyn went on. “I’d take it most kindly if you stuck close to Lord Rhodry when things come to battle. If the rebels are going to succeed, they have to kill him before they’ve caused so much damage that Gwerbret Rhys is forced to intervene. No doubt that’s why they’re not attacking Sligyn’s army. They can’t risk killing the noble-born unless Rhodry’s there as a possible prize.”

  “Just that,” Cullyn said. “Here, I thought you said you didn’t understand matters of war. Sounds to me like you were being modest.”

  “Oh, I’m just repeating what Nevyn told me.”

  Rhodry and Cullyn nodded thoughtfully at this meaningless remark.

  “Aderyn, I don’t understand,” Jill broke in. “You say that no one told you?”

  “Oh!” The old man chuckled under his breath. “My apologies, child. I have a friend named Nevyn. His father gave him the name as some kind of bitter jest, if I remember rightly.”