Dallandra was waiting for him in the stables, where he’d left his saddled horse, and sure enough, there wasn’t a servant to be seen. Yraen settled the messages inside his shirt and against his belt, then led the snorting gray out.
“You’ll be glad of a bit of a run, won’t you, old lad?” He patted the horse’s neck. “So will I.”
Jill and Dallandra were speaking together in some language that he didn’t know. He waited, wondering if he’d ever see Carra again. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to or not. At last, the two dweomermasters stopped talking. While Jill went to the doorway and took up guard, the elven woman took the horse’s bridle.
“Mount up, Yraen, but let me lead you along. We’re going to be walking into a mist of sorts—do you remember that?”
“I doubt if I’ll ever forget it, my lady.”
“Good. At some point, I’m going to let the bridle go and yell at you to ride. When you hear that, gallop like all the hells were opening under you, because you know, they just might be.” She smiled briefly. “When you find yourself in country you recognize, you should be safe enough—unless you see Horsekin, of course.”
“Of course.” Yraen turned and waved at Jill. “Farewell.”
“And may you fare well, Yraen, for all our sakes.”
Dallandra clucked to his horse and began leading it forward in the narrow dark curve along the line of stalls. They had about thirty feet to walk before the wall, but they’d gone only a few strides when the mist formed, an opalescent billow, all silvery white shot with lavender and the palest blues. The horse tossed his head and snorted, but Dallandra soothed him with a few meaningless sounds. Another stride, another, and the mist lay all about them, thick and cool on his face, beading in little drops on the horse’s silvery mane. Another few steps, and more—they should have ridden straight into the stable wall, but the horse’s hooves no longer clopped on boards, rather thudded on dirt. Ahead, sunlight gleamed, thinning the mist. Dallandra walked with them a few steps farther. Through the mist, Yraen could see a pair of trees, nodding in a rising wind. Dallandra laughed and let the bridle go.
“Ride!”
Yraen kicked the horse hard, and the gray leapt forward, dashing free of the mist and pounding down a proper packed-dirt road. When Yraen glanced back, he saw a wisp of the pearly mist hanging over a meadow, where white cows with rusty-red ears grazed in bovine indifference. The mist blew away. He slowed his stable-bound horse to a walk before it foundered itself in the sheer joy of being free, then rose in the stirrups for a good look round. He recognized the road immediately as a place he’d seen before, but he couldn’t put a name to his location. For all Dallandra’s talk of the hells opening, no one shared the road with him, and no more did he see enemies in the surrounding meadows.
But Jill had warned him that there might be enemies invisible to his human sight. He sat back into the saddle, then transferred both reins to his left hand and drew his sword with his right. There was never any harm in riding ready for trouble during a time of war. Automatically, he swung the sword in a wide arc to loosen his arm. Though he saw not a thing, he felt the steel blade catch and drag for the barest of moments on—something. Something which shrieked, a thin sound like a mewling seabird. The hair stood up on the back of his neck.
“Be gone!”
Like a madman in the seeming-empty road, Yraen swung his sword round and about, sweeping it through the air to this side and that, twisting in the saddle to swing it behind him, while his battle-trained gelding walked steadily on, no matter who or what shrieked and howled and whimpered. All at once they were gone, whatever they’d been. The sword swung through nothing; the cries stopped. Panting and sweating, Yraen paused his horse in the middle of the road and realized that a child was watching him. Dressed in a dirty brown smock, the boy carried a wooden crook—the cowherd, no doubt. He stood as if ensorcelled himself, his mouth slack, his eyes wide, in utter stupefaction at what he’d just seen.
“Here!” Yraen called out. “Where does this road lead?”
The boy considered, unblinking. “Which way?” he said at last.
“Both ways.”
“Ah.” Another long pause, then a point. “Dun Trebyc, that way.” Another point. “The hills, that way.”
“Then my thanks to you.”
Yraen turned his horse in the direction of Dun Trebyc. As he jogged off, he was hoping that the child was telling the truth, wondering, in fact, if the child were a real child or just some dweomer illusion, invented by an invisible enemy. Yet now that he had a name for the road, he could remember it better. He and Rhodry had actually ridden this way with Lord Erddyr, when they’d been traveling to Gwerbret Drwmyc’s adjudication, only a few years past.
What Yraen couldn’t know was that he’d fought only a skirmish, that the real danger lay behind him in the mist. Dallandra had just released his horse and sent it forward when she heard the howl, shrieking out of the mists around her. She spun round and saw an enormous wolf, all red eyes and white teeth, charging straight for her. Dallandra leapt into the air and changed as she leapt into the image of the linnet, calling out as she swooped upward on gray wings. In an instant, Alshandra became the night-hawk, screaming again as she rose, wings beating, to gain height in the misty sky. Dallandra dropped, hit cool grass, and changed back into her woman’s form.
Ahead, a dark spot in the swirling mist, stood her gate. She ran for it, heard the whir of wings as the nighthawk stooped, ran and ran, felt her heart pounding and her lungs aching like fire as the huge bird, its talons flashing like knives, swept down upon her. Dallandra leapt and threw herself through the gate just ahead of the slashing beak.
She felt herself falling, tumbling, heard herself scream, too, in honest fear, then landed hard in straw and horse sweepings at Jill’s feet in the dim stables. She could only lie there, gasping for breath, feeling her ribs burn, while Jill flung up her hands and called out a strange invocation. The mists swirled, then vanished, choking off the cry of a hawk.
“She was waiting, then?” Jill said.
Nodding, Dallandra sat up, bracing herself with both hands.
“Did Yraen get through though?”
Dallandra nodded again, then got to her knees with a last gulp for breath. Jill caught her hand and hauled her to her feet.
“How long?” Dallandra gasped.
“Some while, actually. I’ve terrified the grooms.” Jill paused for a grin. “Telling them that they’d be blasted with magic fire if they so much as set one foot into the stables. They believed me, poor souls.”
Dallandra ran both hands down her sides.
“Naught’s broken,” she said at last. “But ych, do I smell of horses! I think me I’d best go look at my bruises in a bath.”
At about the time that Jill and Dallandra were leaving the stables, Yraen was reaching Dun Trebyc. He rode to the crest of a hill and saw below, all misty in the lowering sun, a walled city spreading on either side of a river that wound like a riband through a patchwork of farms. From his height, Yraen could pick out the cluster of gray stone buildings that had to be the gwerbret’s dun, four con-joined brochs standing in the middle of a walled ward, just outside the town proper on his side of the river. He sat for a moment to savor what was likely to be the last moment of peace left to him, then chirruped to his horse and rode downhill. As he trotted up to the dun, he pulled the silver message tubes out of his shirt and held them ready. At the gates, a pair of guards stood lounging against the nearby wall, yawning.
“I’m from Cengarn!” Yraen called to them. “For the love of every god, take me to Gwerbret Drwmyc!”
The two leapt to their feet as if they’d been poked with hot irons.
“Ride in, ride in,” one of them yelled. “I’m running right behind you.”
In a cobbled ward, half-full of tethered horses, Yraen dismounted just as the guard caught up with him, bellowing for pages. One lad took his horse, another ushered him through the huge oak doors of a broch tower. Insid
e, he found a great hall far larger than Cengarn’s and packed with men, some sitting on the floor for want of room at the tables.
“Messages, Your Grace!” the page called out. “Messages from Cengarn!”
Every man in the hall stood and cheered as Yraen strode over to the table of honor. He handed the messages over as he knelt at Drwmyc’s side.
“Is the siege lifted then, Silver Dagger?” the gwerbret said.
“I only wish, Your Grace. I managed to get through the enemy lines on a ruse and naught more.”
Drwmyc swore, then called for his scribe. The page gave Yraen a tankard of ale and a chunk of bread. Yraen drank half of the one right off, then sat back on his heels and more courteously began nibbling on the other. While the scribe read the letters out, the great hall fell into a desperate sort of silence with every person in it straining to hear. Yraen glanced round, idly counting up the fighting men, picking out those guests who seemed to be noble-born. The lords were scattered over the hall with their men, at this early hour, rather than assembled at the table of honor for the meal. All at once, he realized that one person seated at the table of honor was staring not at the scribe, but at him. His heart sank as he recognized her, Lady Graeca of Trev Hael, seated among four noble ladies down at the table’s end. Once, when he’d been but sixteen and she not much older, they’d been betrothed, but in the end her father had found her a better match than him among the lords of the northern border.
What was she doing in Pyrdon? Visiting some noble friend, he supposed, and caught there by the risk of war. She was still very beautiful, with her lustrous dark hair and green eyes, her full lips a little parted in astonishment at seeing him again. All at once, she seemed to realize her indecorum and looked sharply away. Yraen finished his bread and hoped that she would hold her tongue about his identity, but a small hope it was. Graeca had never been much for tact.
The scribe finished the last letter, and the hall boiled over, men shouting and swearing, women weeping and babbling. Drwmyc rose and pounded on the table of honor. Silence fell.
“Very well,” the gwerbret called out. “Soon, men, soon we’ll ride north!”
Riders and lords alike cheered him. He held up both hands for quiet.
“We’ve moldered here long enough. The muster’s as complete as it’ll ever be, my lords, and we’ll deal with the slackers when we ride home.”
More cheers rang out. So that’s the delay, Yraen thought. Some of his vassals have been shirking! He rose to his knees and looked round the hall, found near one side Lord Erddyr, as stout and gray as ever, standing at the head of a table, and next to him the one-armed Tieryn Comerr. All at once, Erddyr laughed, nudged Comerr, and pointed at Yraen. Comerr smiled, more than a little grimly, and nodded. The gwerbret sat back down, picked up his own tankard, and leaned over to speak.
“What’s your name, Silver Dagger?”
“Yraen, my lord.” He shot a glance at Graeca, who was leaning forward to listen. “And truly, that’s all the name I have anymore.”
“Well, iron you are, in your soul, eh? You’ve done a grand thing, getting these messages through. I—hold! I know you. You used to ride with—oh, ye gods, what’s his name, that berserker, the other silver dagger.”
“Rhodry of Aberwyn, Your Grace, and he killed Lord Adry in that feud, some years past.”
“The very one. Has his Wyrd taken him, then?”
“Not that I know of, Your Grace. He was—” Yraen hesitated briefly “—riding another message for Gwerbret Cadmar before the siege began, so I truly don’t know what did happen to him.”
“I see. Well, that’s the fortunes of war, eh?” Drwmyc seemed more than a little relieved that Rhodry was far away. “Here, page! Take Yraen over to the men and see that he’s fed. What have you done with his horse?”
“One of the grooms took him, Your Grace,” the boy said, bowing.
“Good, good. Well, find our silver dagger somewhere to sleep, too, when he’s done.”
Glad to escape from Graeca’s stare, Yraen followed the page across the great hall. With so many men there for the muster, Yraen supposed that the gwerbretal barracks would be full to overflowing, and indeed, the page told him outright that he doubted if he could find him a bed.
“I can sleep out in the ward, lad. It’s not going to rain tonight.”
“Well and good, then. There’s a thousand men here, you see. Well, they’re not all in the dun, I mean. You must have seen the camp when you rode through the town.”
“I didn’t, truly. I came in the south gate.”
“Oh, I see. The camp’s on the north side of the river.”
“But a thousand men at the muster? That’s all?”
“Maybe a hundred or so over a thousand. That’s what the marshal said, anyway.”
Yraen felt sick and suddenly weary. There were at least twice that number of Horsekin camped round Cadmar’s walls—at least. When he glanced back at the table of honor, he saw that the ladies were retiring, and the noble lords rushing to cluster round the gwerbret. Despite the cheers earlier, none of them were smiling now. No doubt they could all add Cadmar’s news to the size of their own army and count out doom.
“Is there any chance of raising more men?” Yraen said.
“Well, his grace called in his big alliance with the gwerbret in Dun Drw, and a messenger rode in some days ago and said they were on their way.”
“Splendid! How many men will that bring?”
“Oh, lots and lots. Another five hundred.”
The weariness claimed him again. He’d forgotten how sparse things were here on the western border, forgotten how few lords, how few men lived spread over such a vast expanse of forest and farm.
“Yraen, you bastard!” A familiar voice called out, laughing. “Come over here and have some dinner.”
It was Renydd, Erddyr’s captain, waving at him from a seat at one of the tables. Yraen shook hands, then joined him, sitting himself down on the bench opposite.
“You turn up like a witch’s curse, huh, the moment there’s talk of dweomer,” Renydd said. “Where’s Rhodry? Still in the land of the living, I hope.”
“As far as I know, he is. He was gone from the dun when the siege began.” Yraen hesitated, then decided that the last thing he wanted to do was talk of dragons. “I’m assuming he’s part of some ally’s army by now.”
“Most likely. Here, have some of this pork. Once we’re on the march, who knows what we’ll be eating.”
As the evening wore on, Yraen was profoundly grateful that no one asked him much about his supposed escape through enemy lines. Whenever the question started to rise, he’d turn it aside with a few mutters about having had a silver dagger’s luck or maybe the favor of the gods. He did invent a merchant who’d supposedly given him a horse. The men round him were far more interested, anyway, in what he knew about the enemy. While the lords clustered round the gwerbret at his table, the various captains of the warbands stood round Yraen, and the mood of the hall grew grimmer and grimmer as the evening wore on. Most had never heard of Horsekin before, but none saw any reason to disbelieve him.
“Ah, well,” Renydd said at last, “I swore I’d die in my lord’s service, and that’s that. No one lives forever, eh, lads?”
The men round nodded, saying little, and drank hard.
Pleading weariness, Yraen left the great hall early. He picked up a candle lantern by the door, then found his bedroll out in the stables. With his gear slung over one shoulder, he was looking round the ward for a softer place to sleep than the cobbles when a young page, carrying a lantern of his own, hurried up to him. In the dancing light, he could see that the boy was smirking from ear to ear.
“I’ve got a message for you, and the lady gave me a whole silver piece to keep it secret.”
“The Lady Graeca?”
“It is. She wants you to follow me.”
Yraen debated, but curiosity won. The page led him through the mobbed maze of outbuildings and slee
ping men, towers and tethered horses, carts and pigsties, to the main complex itself, then round the back of that into a narrow space between two of the half-brochs. As they walked, Yraen kept looking round, expecting to find her waiting in some secluded spot outside, but the page led him right into one of the towers and up the stairs. At a polished wood door the boy pointed, then winked and took his leave.
Before Yraen could knock, the door opened to reveal a small reception chamber, lit by candles in sconces. Giggling like a lass, Graeca hurried him inside and barred the door fast.
“I’ve sent my maid away, you see. Maryn, what are you doing here? Where have you been? Why are you carrying that beastly silver dagger?”
Yraen sighed and flopped the bedroll onto the floor. It had been so long since he’d heard his actual name that it no longer seemed to belong to him, as if perhaps the heroic king of the old chronicles, for whom he’d been named, had come back from the dead and asserted his right to bear it alone. Yraen set the candle lantern down in the hearth, empty on this warm summer’s night, then glanced round. On the far side of the chamber, a half-open door led to some other room.
“What are you doing here yourself?” he said instead of answering. “Visiting Drwmyc’s lady?”
“Of course. She happens to be my sister, you know. Or well, I don’t suppose you’d remember that.”
There were a pair of chairs standing on a Bardek carpet in the curve of the wall. Yawning, he flopped into one and stretched his legs out in front of him. For a moment she stood, studying him. Her unbound hair fell over slender shoulders.
“I must be filthy from the road,” he remarked. “My apologies.”
“Oh, please, I’m quite used to that by now, married off to a lord up here.” Her voice iced. “Things are very different than at court.”
“Your husband’s a fair bit richer than ever I would have been.”
“Do you think that mattered to me? I wept when they broke our betrothal, you know. Father already had an alliance with your clan, and he wanted one up here in the north, and that’s all that mattered.” She shrugged, perching on the edge of the other chair. “But you never answered me.”
Days of Air and Darkness Page 28
