Daggerspell

by Katharine Kerr

  “By the hells!” Rhodry did his best to look shocked and horrified. “What a terrible thing!”

  “So I thought. Well, then, yesternight these two ride in with a message from Corbyn, asking me ever so sweetly to raise an army and ride to lift the siege.”

  Rhodry whistled under his breath at the gall of it.

  “Cursed right!” Talidd snapped. “As if I’d break the gwerbret’s peace and meddle in somewhat that’s none of my affair, especially after the way he’s treated one of my blood kin! If your lordship agrees, I’m going to take these riders down to Rhys and present the matter. Corbyn didn’t send a letter, you see, so I need their testimony.”

  “Naught would gladden my heart more. All I ask is that you let me show them off in front of the dun before you go, so Corbyn knows that my herald is speaking the truth when he says I’ve got them.”

  They went into Corbyn’s chambers to discuss the news in private. Nowec perched on the windowsill, Corbyn paced back and forth, and Loddlaen sat in a chair and tried to project a calm contempt for this turn of events. Grunting like a pig, Nowec repeatedly rubbed his mustache with the back of his hand.

  “It was cursed stupid of you to approach Talidd,” Nowec snarled.

  “I didn’t!” Corbyn snapped. “Can’t you get that through your thick skull? I never sent any message to Talidd. I sent those two men to Aberwyn to sue for peace, just like we’d decided.”

  Loddlaen swore in Elvish.

  “A traitor,” Corbyn went on. “There has to be a traitor in the dun, and he judged Talidd’s mind to a nicety, too.”

  “And just who would this traitor be?” Nowec said. “There’s no one here but us and our men, and I can’t see your two lads thinking that up on their own.”

  “Just so.” Corbyn stopped pacing to turn on him. “I was wondering about that myself. I’m not the one who received the offer of pardon.”

  When Nowec’s hand drifted toward his sword hilt, Loddlaen jumped up and got in between them.

  “Don’t be fools,” Loddlaen snapped. “It would have been extremely easy for Rhodry’s men to take the messengers on the road and bribe them then and there.”

  Corbyn sighed and held out his hand to Nowec.

  “My apologies. I’m all to pieces over this.”

  “And so am I.” Nowec shook his hand. “Well, can’t drink spilled ale, can you? The question is, what do we do now?”

  “I haven’t given up hope yet,” Corbyn said with a flattering smile at Loddlaen. “Maybe there are other ways to send messages, ones that don’t require horses.”

  Loddlaen felt sweat spring up on his back. Aderyn was right outside, waiting and watching for him to try to escape.

  “Perhaps.” Loddlaen forced out a smile. “His lordship has been pleased with my subterfuges in the past.”

  Corbyn smiled. Nowec began running his fingers through his mustache as if he meant to tear it out.

  “If my lords allow,” Loddlaen went on, “I’ll retire to my chamber and consider the problem.”

  Loddlaen ran up the staircase to his chamber, barred the door behind him, then flung himself down on his bed. All his talk of Rhodry’s bribing messengers was just so much chatter to keep up the two lords’ morale. He knew that Aderyn had to be the one behind the ruse. It would have been easy for the old man to ensorcel them and inject an image into their minds, to plant a clear and vivid memory of Corbyn telling them the message to Talidd. They would have no way of discovering that the memory was as false as a dream.

  He got up and paced restlessly to the window. Maybe he could reach the gwerbret with the message. He could put Corbyn’s letter and some clothes into a sack that the hawk could carry in its talons, then somehow evade Aderyn and fly to Aberwyn. Somehow. He laughed, an hysterical giggle, knowing that no matter how fast he flew, Aderyn would be following behind. Unless, of course, he killed Aderyn first. He clutched the windowsill hard with both hands. To kill your own father—oh, ye gods, had he come this low?

  Loddlaen flung himself down on the bed again. All afternoon he lay there, and his mind was as choppy as the sea when the tide runs one way and the wind another.

  Since there was a chance that Corbyn would make a desperate sally now that his messengers had been apprehended, everyone in Rhodry’s camp went armed that afternoon. Jill joined Calonderiel and Jennantar, who were standing guard over the horses with their longbows ready. As the hours dragged by, even the two elves were hard-pressed to find jests.

  “You know, Jill,” Jennantar said. “I’ve been thinking about our Lord Rhodry ever since that little scrap he had with Cal here. There’s something about the way he moved, and how quick he was, that’s suspicious. Would you do somewhat for me? See if you can get him to touch your silver dagger. I wager it glows.”

  “What’s the old saying?” Jill said. “Elven blood in Eldidd veins?”

  “Oho!” Calonderiel joined in. “You think, lass, unlike the rest of the stinking Round-ears.”

  “Would you not use that word?” Jennantar snapped. “It’s more than a little discourteous, especially in front of Jill.”

  “Now, Jill may have round ears.” Calonderiel pointed at one of them with his bow. “But she’s not a Round-ear. There’s a big difference.”

  Jennatar growled like a dog.

  “Oh, very well. I won’t sully your pointed ears with the word again.” Cal ducked back as the other elf swung a fake punch at him. “But truly, Jill, see what happens when Rhodry gets that blade in his hands.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Jill said, honestly intrigued. “And as soon as I can, too.”

  By then it was nearing sunset, and the fading light made a sally impossible. When Rhodry called off the guard, Jill and the two elves went back to camp. Since everyone was expecting a long siege, the elves had raised the tent they’d brought on their travois. It was a beautiful thing, about ten feet across and eight high, made of purple-dyed leather and painted with pictures of running deer in the forest, so realistically done that Jill could have sworn that the deer would turn their heads and look at her. While Jennantar went to draw rations for the three of them, Calonderiel helped Jill off with her chain mail. She felt as if she were floating just by contrast.

  “I pray to every god in the sky that Corbyn doesn’t sally before I get used to this miserable stuff.”

  “So do I.” Calonderiel looked sincerely worried. “You might ask Aderyn for some ointment if your shoulders are sore.”

  “You know, I think I will.”

  Aderyn did indeed have a rubefacient mixture in sweet lard that took some of the ache away. Jill went into the comfortable privacy of the tent and rubbed the minty-smelling salve into her shoulders and upper arms, then merely sat there for a while to rest. Now that she was faced with the hard reality of war, she was frightened, thinking that her father was right enough. She knew nothing of the screaming, shoving confusion of a real battle.

  “It’s too late now to get out of it,” Jill remarked to the gray gnome. “And better dead than a coward.”

  The gnome yawned in unconcern. She supposed that he could have no idea of what death meant.

  “Jill?” It was Rhodry’s voice. “Are you in there?”

  “I am, my lord. I’ll come out.”

  But Rhodry slipped in just as she put on her shirt, and he was grinning in triumph at catching her alone. The gnome opened its mouth in a soundless snarl as he sat down beside her.

  “This tent is splendid. I wanted a look at the inside.”

  “I never knew that the lord cadvridoc had an interest in leather cushions and tent poles.”

  “A very great interest.” Rhodry inched a little closer.

  “Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen finer cushions than these.”

  The gnome leapt up and slapped his face. Rhodry swore and looked around for the source of the blow, but the gnome jumped onto his back and grabbed handfuls of his hair. With a yelp, Rhodry batted at the enemy he couldn’t see.

  “
Stop that!” Jill snapped.

  With an audible hiss the gnome disappeared. Rhodry gingerly rubbed his scalp.

  “In the name of every god, what was all that?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure. Are you having spasms? Maybe you should consult with Aderyn.”

  “Don’t give me that.” Rhodry grabbed her wrists. “You know cursed well what happened. Why else did you yell ‘stop that’ at whatever it was?”

  Jill twisted against his thumbs, broke his grip, then started to scramble up, but he caught her by the shoulders and dragged her back. For a moment they wrestled, but Jill began to giggle and let him win.

  “Answer me,” Rhodry said, and he was smiling. “What was it?”

  “Oh, well and good, then. It was one of the Wildfolk, and he was jealous of you.”

  Rhodry let her go and sat back.

  “Are you daft?”

  “You felt it pull your hair, didn’t you?”

  Rhodry looked at her with such revulsion on his handsome face that she suddenly hated him. She pulled her silver dagger and held it close to him. The light ran like water down the blade.

  “Oho! Elven blood in Eldidd veins indeed! Don’t you look so snot-faced about me. I may see the Wildfolk, but you’re half an elf.”

  When Rhodry grabbed the dagger from her, it flared as brightly as a sconce full of candles. Swearing, he turned it this way and that while Jill laughed at him.

  “It’s got an enchantment on it. It glows round the Elcyion Lacar, and that’s who the Westfolk really are. You’re half one of them, I swear it.”

  “Hold your tongue.” Rhodry flung the dagger down. “And don’t you laugh at me.”

  The order, of course, only made her laugh the more. Rhodry grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, so hard that she slapped him across the face.

  “You little hellcat!”

  Shoving and swearing, they wrestled like a pair of wild things, but he was the strong one when her fighting tricks were of no use. Finally he pinned her on her back, lay half across her, and smiled, his face only a few inches from her own.

  “Cry surrender.”

  “Shan’t.”

  He bent his head and kissed her. It was the first kiss a man had ever given her, and it seemed to burn on her mouth, as if she were aflame with thirst and only Rhodry’s kisses could slake it. She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him again, openmouthed and greedy.

  “My pardons, lord cadvridoc,” Aderyn said. “But is this truly wise?”

  With a yelp Jill shoved Rhodry away and sat up. His arms crossed over his chest, Aderyn stood over them, and he wasn’t smiling. Rhodry turned scarlet and sat up, too, smoothing his shirt down.

  “From the noise in here,” Aderyn said with great asperity, “I thought I’d have to break up a fight. What are you two, cats squawling with love in a barnyard? By the hells, Jill, I’ve got to answer to both Nevyn and your father about you. I don’t care to face either of them in a rage.”

  Neither did Jill. She wanted to melt like spring snow and sink into the earth with shame. Rhodry forced out a sheepish smile and picked up the silver dagger, which promptly glowed in his hands.

  “I know what you’re going to say, good Aderyn,” Rhodry said, fiddling nervously with the dagger hilt. “And you’ll be right, too. It would be a shameful thing of me to dishonor the woman I love in the middle of an army camp. I had no intentions of doing anything of the sort.”

  “There are times,” Aderyn said, “when I truly wish I could turn men into frogs! It’s a bit hard to believe those fine words. I—”

  All at once Aderyn stopped and stared at the dagger. Jill supposed that he was so used to dweomer that he’d only just noticed the enchantment on the blade.

  “So! It’s an odd thing about elven blood in a clan. It skips generation after generation, and then all at once, out it comes in someone.”

  “What?” Rhodry squeaked. “What cursed nonsense—”

  “No nonsense at all. Jill, take that dagger back. You’re coming with me. As for you, my lord, think about this. I know it’s a bit of a shock, but you’re as much kin to the Elcyion Lacar as you are to the Maelwaedd clan.”

  Just that evening, the wagon train with the wounded and the prisoners reached Dun Gwerbyn. Standing on the crest of a hill, the dun towered over the little town that had grown up around the tieryn’s principal residence. Inside the dun walls were a triple broch and enough huts and houses for a village. Although Nevyn was pleased to learn that Lovyan had already arrived, he had no time to talk with her for some hours. Together with the official chirurgeon, he oversaw getting the wounded bunked down in the barracks, changed the dressing on everyone’s wounds, then bathed before he went to the great hall. At the door he met Lord Gwynvedd, the chamberlain, a highly efficient man despite having lost his right arm in battle years before.

  “I followed Rhodry’s orders about the silver dagger. He’s in a chamber in the broch, and the chirurgeon’s already seen him.”

  “Splendid. I’ll look in on him myself in a bit. Where have you seated me for meals?”

  “At the table of honor, of course. Her Grace is there now, and she wants a word with you.”

  Lovyan’s great hall was easily a hundred feet across. In between the windows tapestries hung on the wall, and the floor was covered with neatly braided rushes. Lovyan rose to greet Nevyn and seated him at her right hand. Since everyone else had long finished eating, a servant brought him a trencher of roast pork and cabbage and a tankard of dark ale.

  “Nevyn,” Lovyan said. “Where’s Jill? Several people now have told me she’s with the army, but that can’t be true!”

  “I’m afraid it is. Have you heard of the dweomer prophecy? That’s true, too.”

  “Oh, ye gods! I thought everyone had gone daft.” Lovyan took his tankard and helped herself to a sip of ale. “Truly, I’m as worried about Jill as I am about Rhodry. It was odd, considering how short a time she sheltered with me, but I’ve never met a lass I liked more.”

  Nevyn merely smiled, thinking that it was hardly odd at all, considering how deeply Lovyan’s Wyrd had been entwined with Jill’s in lives past.

  After he finished eating, he went to his chamber up in one of the joined towers. A page had already brought him a pitcher of water and started a charcoal fire in the brazier to take the damp off the stone walls. Nevyn opened the shutters over the window for a bit of air, then stood over the glowing coals and thought of Aderyn. In a few minutes Aderyn’s image appeared, floating over the fire.

  “I was going to get in contact with you later,” Aderyn thought to him. “I’ve just found out an interesting thing. I saw young Rhodry holding Jill’s silver dagger, and it was glowing like fire. All the elven blood in the Maelwaedd clan’s come out in him.”

  “By the gods! Of course! I should have seen that years ago. It explains many an odd thing about the lad.”

  “It’s a hard thing to spot about a man sometimes. I suppose that’s why the dwarves developed that dweomer for their silver. I’m more concerned with keeping the lad alive than ever. When the time comes for the reconciliation of elves and men, it would useful to have him tieryn on the western border.”

  “Useful and twice useful. I’ve always had strange omens about the lad, and I wonder if this lies at the core of them.”

  “It might, at that, and truly, I wonder if Rhodry’s elven blood is what made him so interesting to our dark enemy.”

  “Indeed? Why?”

  Aderyn hesitated, looking puzzled.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last. “The thought just seemed to come to me.”

  “Then it’s an idea worth pondering. You may have been given a message.”

  After Aderyn broke the link, Nevyn paced back and forth and wondered if indeed Rhodry was the man meant to mediate the ancient feud between elf and man. It’s difficult in the extreme for the Great Ones—the Lords of Wyrd and the Lords of Light—to communicate with their servants on earth, simply becau
se those disincarnate beings inhabit a plane far removed from the physical, far more deeply within the heart of the universe than even the astral plane. If one of the Great Ones has to send a message, he has to work a dweomer of his own, first building a thought-form that’s roughly the equivalent of a dweomermaster’s body of light, then using that form to travel down the planes to the lowest level such a being can reach. From that plane, he can then either direct the elemental spirits to produce certain effects, such as thunder from a clear sky, or else send images, emotions, and with great difficulty, short thoughts into the mind of a person trained in dweomer. If one of the Great Ones had gone to such effort to send Aderyn a message about Rhodry’s elven heritage, then something very important indeed was at stake.

  As Nevyn thought about it, he could see that the dark dweomer might have some interest in ensuring that peace never came to the elven border, simply because those who follow the dark arts are safer in troubled times, when lords can’t be bothered with tales of peculiar people who do suspect things in out-of-the-way places. And yet, the reason wasn’t quite adequate. Unlike the evil magicians in the bard songs, who love to cause misery and suffering for its own sake, the men of the dark dweomer never act directly in the world without some very good reason. If a dark master wanted Rhodry dead, it had to be because Rhodry presented some specific threat to him or to his kind. It was puzzling, all of it, and Nevyn knew that he had many hard hours of meditation ahead of him if he was going to begin to sort the puzzle out. He was sure that he had more clues than he could easily see, and that the roots probably lay deep in his own past and in the past lives of those in his care.

  “I grow so old, and so weary.”

  Whenever Nevyn looked over his life, the memories were crowded and tangled, as if he were looking at the wrong side of a tapestry and trying to figure out the pattern on the front. Quite simply, he’d never had the chance to sort things out in the state called death, where the experiences of a lifetime are sifted and condensed to hard, clear seeds of experience. Everything ran together and blurred until at times he could barely remember the names of people who had been important to him, much less why they had been important, simply because the information was sunk in a sea of meaningless details. At other times, when he was trying to make a decision, the memories crowded so thickly that he could barely act. Every possible course of action would immediately suggest three or four possible different results that had happened or might have happened in the past. Every fact became qualified a hundred times over, like some passage from a Bardek poet when adjective after adjective clusters round and overwhelms one poor little noun. In truth, as he considered the problem that night, Nevyn realized that he thought very much like an elf.