The Spirit Stone

by Katharine Kerr

  ‘We’re in for a storm, all right,’ Nevyn pronounced.

  ‘I’d say so, my lord. I hope to the gods that the stable roof doesn’t leak.’

  Nevyn nodded his agreement and had a sip of his ale. With the clatter of hooves and the jingle of polished tack, a squad of five horsemen came trotting down the village street and up to the inn. As they dismounted, Gwairyc saw the swords at their sides and the blazon of a red hawk on their shirts.

  ‘Must be the riders of our local lord,’ Gwairyc said.

  ‘Just so. I don’t remember his name.’

  The lads tied their horses up at the side of the tavern, then came strolling around to the door. Gwairyc envied them. Once he’d been free to enjoy a tankard in the company of men who understood him, men who were true companions and fellow-warriors. One of the riders paused, looking Nevyn over.

  ‘Good morrow, sir. You look new to our village.’

  ‘Just passing through. I’m a herbman, you see.’

  The rider nodded pleasantly and went inside with his fellows. In a bit, Nevyn finished his ale and handed the tankard to Gwairyc.

  ‘Take this back in. One’s enough for me, but buy yourself another if you’d like, lad.’

  ‘My thanks. I will.’

  Gwairyc took the copper for the ale from Nevyn and carried the tankards back to the tavernman. While the tavernman was dipping him a second tankard from the barrel, Gwairyc realized that the Red Hawk riders were looking him over. As Gwairyc started back outside with his full tankard, a beefy blond fellow got up and blocked his way.

  ‘What are you doing with a sword, lad?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Gwairyc said.

  ‘You’re naught but the servant for that moth-eaten old herbman. You’ve got no right to carry a man’s weapon.’

  Gwairyc threw the tankard of ale full into his face. With a howl of rage, the fellow staggered back and swatted at the ale running and foaming down his chest. Shouting, the other lads jumped up, hands going to their hilts. Gwairyc drew and dropped into a fighting stance. He could ask for naught better than a chance to kill someone and wash away his shame with blood.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Nevyn yelled. ‘Stop it!’

  No one paid him the least attention. The nearest two riders drew, dropping into their stance, and edged cautiously for Gwairyc. Gwairyc waited, judging distance. All at once a crash and crackle like thunder boomed around him. Blue fire leapt up, surrounding his enemies in one enormous flame, blinding him as well as them. He heard the lads yelling and cursing as another fire came with the thunder close behind.

  ‘Get out!’ Nevyn’s voice said calmly. ‘All of you—out now!’

  Still half-blind, Gwairyc staggered back, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his sight. He could just barely see the Red Hawk riders, equally blind, stumbling as fast as they could, shoving each other to be the first out the door. In the corner the tavernman was laughing in long peals while he hugged his own middle. Nevyn strolled over to Gwairyc and pulled the sword from his limp hand.

  ‘Did you do that?’ Gwairyc heard his voice squeaking like a lad’s.

  ‘And who else would it have been?’ the tavernman broke in. ‘Ye gods, Nevyn, you’re a marvel, you are—and at your age, too.’

  ‘Oh, the old horse can take a jump or two yet,’ Nevyn said, grinning. ‘Now listen, Gwarro. I won’t have you killing anyone. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I think I finally do understand you, my lord. You’re dweomer.’

  ‘Just that. What did you think I did to earn the king’s favour? Lance his boils?’

  Shaking too hard to speak, Gwairyc leaned back against the tavernroom wall. Nevyn looked at the sword.

  ‘You won’t be carrying this from now on. Take off that sword belt, lad, and hand it over. I’m not giving it back to you until I see fit.’

  For a moment Gwairyc’s rage flared up like dweomer-fire. Taking his sword away was the worst dishonour in the world. Nevyn’s cold blue gaze caught and pinned him to the wall. Slowly, silently cursing himself for doing it, Gwairyc unbuckled his belt and handed it to the old man, then turned and ran outside rather than watch another man sheath his blade. He threw himself down on the bench and watched the clouds darkening the sky while he trembled so hard he could no longer tell if the cause were rage or terror.

  The rain clouds had turned as dark as cinders when Nevyn came out to join him. He stood, his hands on his hips, in front of the bench and look Gwairyc over. ‘Well?’ Nevyn said.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What have you made of all that?’

  ‘The blue fire and the like? I’ve not made anything out of it, except you called it down from wherever it came from. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Most likely. Do you remember what I told you that very first day at the temple of Wmm? There was a thing I told you to remember.’

  Gwairyc thought for a long moment. ‘You told me you were doing this to benefit the king.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Nevyn suddenly grinned. ‘I told you I was doing it to benefit you.’

  ‘Ye gods! That ran right out of my mind.’

  ‘I thought it might have.’

  ‘But how by all the ice in all the hells—I mean, benefit me how?’

  ‘Only you can know that.’

  ‘What? I—’

  ‘If I explained, you’d only miss it.’

  Gwairyc thought up a nasty reply, but the memory of the blue fire leaping through the tavern stopped him from voicing it.

  ‘I’m not talking in riddles to tease you,’ Nevyn continued. ‘Some things truly can’t be made clear.’

  ‘Well, since it’s dweomer, I’d be a fool to argue.’

  Gwairyc had the rare pleasure of seeing Nevyn taken utterly aback.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ the old man said at last, ‘I would have thought you’d be alarmed at the very idea of dweomer, but you’re not.’

  ‘I’m one of the Rams of Hendyr, aren’t I? Most lords mock the dweomer. Can’t be true, they say. But not us, and we won’t let anyone of our rank or below mock it in our presence. It’s one of the things that makes us Rams. That’s what my father and my grandfather tell all of us.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Nevyn considered this for a moment. ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Of course, you being what you are. It’s because of Lady Lillorigga of the Ram. One of our ancestors, she was, back in the Time of Troubles.’

  ‘I’ve heard her name, truly.’ Once again Nevyn looked startled, and Gwairyc began to enjoy the effect he was having. ‘Go on, lad, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. She was a sorceress, and the bards have passed down the tale. She made a prediction of some sort, I think it was.’ Gwairyc paused, frowning over details—he’d not heard the story for a good many years now. ‘They’d been loyal to the cursed Boars, but thanks to her, The Ram recognized the true king in the nick of time and went over to his side. It’s all a bit muddled in the tales, my lord, when it comes to exactly how she did it, but she did, and that’s been good enough for us.’

  ‘As well it should be. And now we’d best get inside, because it’s starting to rain.’

  By the morrow the weather had cleared, and they took up their slow travelling west again. At intervals Gwairyc would think about Nevyn’s words. Try though he did, the only benefit he could see was that he wouldn’t die in this summer’s fighting, which was a coward’s benefit and beneath contempt.

  On the longest day of the year they reached Matrynwn, a proper town near the headwaters of the Vicaver. From the dusty village square they could see mountains, rising squat and rocky off to the west.

  ‘They mark the Eldidd border,’ Nevyn told him.

  ‘Good,’ Gwairyc said. ‘That relieves my heart.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The fear of meeting some lord I know. I’ve never been this far west in my life.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, we could easily travel on to Eldidd.’ Nevyn paused, thinking. ‘I’ve got f
riends off to the west.’

  ‘What about the herbs you were looking for? In old forest, I think you said.’

  ‘I did say just that, and truly, old forest’s easy to find in western Eldidd. Done, then! Let’s ask around about the road ahead of us.’

  Matrynwn turned out to be the last town on the only road that would lead them through the mountains. Thanks to its position it sported several proper inns, each with fenced pastures for the horses and mules of the caravans that came through. After a little asking around, Nevyn found an inn that was sheltering a caravan heading west. Its master, a Cerrmor man named Wffyn, considered himself lucky that a herbman wanted to join them. He was a burly fellow, with a sandy beard streaked with grey and a scatter of grey hairs on his mostly bald head. Judging by the heavy muscles of his long arms, though, he could still wield a quarterstaff if he had to. And sometimes, or so he told them, you had to.

  ‘You never know who’s lurking about the mountains, but you’ll be safe, riding with us,’ Wffyn said. ‘I’ve got ten men who can fight as well as tend the mules. By all means, good sir, you and your apprentice will be most welcome.’

  Wffyn had an apprentice of his own, of sorts—very much of sorts, Gwairyc decided. Tirro was a skinny lad, probably no more than fifteen summers old, with the bright blue eyes and high cheekbones of a Cerrmor man, though red pimples dotted those cheekbones and clustered around his mouth. His hair—actually, he seemed to have none, because he wore on his head a little linen cap, all stained with some sort of grease—but his eyebrows were blond, as you’d expect of someone from the south. When Gwairyc first met him, Tirro refused to look him in the eye. Every now and then, while their two masters discussed the trip ahead, Tirro would stick a skinny finger under the cap and scratch viciously, to the point where he eventually made himself bleed.

  ‘Ye gods,’ Nevyn said. ‘What’s vexing you so badly, lad?’

  ‘Ah, well, uh.’ Tirro kept his gaze on the floor.

  ‘Ringworm,’ Wffyn broke in, ‘and come along, lad, you’re not supposed to scratch it. Get some more salve if you need it.’

  ‘I will, master.’ Tirro stood up. ‘My apologies.’ He turned and ran out of the tavern room.

  ‘What kind of salve is it?’ Nevyn said.

  ‘I don’t truly know. The apothecary in Cerrmor made it up for him. Ceruse, he called it, in emollients.’

  ‘Ah,’ Nevyn said. ‘Ceruse is the calx of lead, that is, whitened lead.’

  ‘Lead? Now that I know.’ Wffyn nodded sagely. ‘It does seem to be working, when I can get him to stop scratching.’

  ‘Good. Is he bloodkin of yours?’

  ‘He’s not, and I thank the gods for that. An unfortunate sort of lad, Tirro. I’m taking him along as a favour to his father, naught more.’

  ‘I see,’ Nevyn said. ‘Giving him a taste of the merchant life?’

  Wffyn started to speak, paused, had a sip of ale, frowned into his tankard, started once more to speak, then sighed. ‘Well,’ he finally said, ‘I didn’t mean to go telling tales, but truly, I wouldn’t mind a little help with keeping an eye on the lad. He had to leave Cerrmor, you see, and sudden like.’

  ‘Stealing?’ Nevyn said.

  ‘Worse.’ Wffyn hesitated briefly. ‘He’s somewhat of a loricart, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Nevyn said. ‘Cerrmor cant-words are beyond me.’

  ‘Well, now, I’ve heard this sort of man called hedge creepers in other parts of the kingdom, or lobcocks.’

  ‘I’ve heard those, too.’ Gwairyc cleared his throat and spat into the straw on the floor. ‘He means men who fancy little children.’

  ‘That,’ Nevyn said slowly, ‘is truly disgusting.’

  ‘It is all of that,’ Wffyn said. ‘There was a lass name of Mella, a pretty little thing but not more than six summers old, and Tirro got a fair bit too friendly with her, if you take my meaning. Her father and her uncles were going to beat the cursed wretched young cub to a bloody pulp, but fortunately they saw reason when I said I’d take him away on caravan.’

  ‘I gather there was no doubt that the lad was guilty.’

  ‘None. On top of everything else, he gave the poor child his ringworm.’

  Nevyn made a profoundly sour face. ‘But you’ll take him with you?’

  ‘Well, now, I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help him, but I owed his da a fair bit of money, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘I see. So he’s erased the debt now?’ Nevyn said.

  ‘He has,’ Wffyn glanced at Gwairyc. ‘But if you see Tirro hanging around some little lass during our travels, tell me, will you? I can’t be everywhere at once.’

  ‘Gladly,’ Gwairyc said. ‘Have no fear of that.’

  Wffyn raised his tankard in salute and smiled his thanks. ‘What’s going to happen when you get back to Cerrmor?’ Nevyn asked.

  ‘Tirro will be shipping out for Bardek,’ Wffyn said. ‘His father has a friend with a ship, you see, but he’d left harbour before this thing happened—the ship’s captain I mean, not the father. He’ll come back late in the summer and then make the last run over to winter in Bardek. Tirro will be going with him, and good riddance.’

  ‘I see,’ Nevyn said. ‘Exactly where is the ship going, do you know?’

  ‘Myleton.’

  Nevyn nodded, as if merely acknowledging the information, but by then Gwairyc knew him well enough to see that something had troubled him. Later, when they were alone, he asked the old man about it.

  ‘Bardek is a very strange place,’ Nevyn said. ‘There are men there who share Tirro’s particular vice, and some of them are rich and even powerful. They pursue their prey in the shadows, because most Bardekians are decent folk, but at the same time, in the larger towns, there are brothels where they can satisfy their wretched cravings in safety.’

  ‘That’s loathsome!’

  ‘Indeed. So I was wondering if I could send a message to some friends of mine there, to suggest they tell the archons to keep an eye on this unfortunate cub. Alas, they live on Orystinna, nowhere near Myleton.’

  ‘A pity. This Orys-whatzit—it’s another island?’

  ‘It is. Most likely Tirro will alert the archons to his presence on his own, by doing some wretched thing too openly. He strikes me as more than a little dim-witted. I wish I could prevent it, but alas, like our good merchant, I can’t be everywhere at once.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Gwairyc shook his head in disgust. ‘Ye gods, if the lad was as hard up as all that, he could have gone after a sheep. It would have been cleaner.’

  ‘True spoken.’ Nevyn managed a twisted smile at the jest.

  Gwairyc realized that for this moment at least he and his master, as he always thought of Nevyn, had found a common bond of sorts in their disgust. It would be a good time to bring up a matter very much on his mind.

  ‘There was somewhat else I wanted to ask you,’ Gwairyc said. ‘About these bandits, my lord. I can’t defend the caravan with my bare hands.’

  ‘Ah. You want your sword back, do you?’ Nevyn considered, but only briefly. ‘Very well. I’ll give it to you. Just don’t go drawing it on anyone but the bandits.’

  ‘I won’t, I swear it.’

  The return of his sword raised Gwairyc’s spirits more than anything else could have, except perhaps the chance to kill a bandit or two with it. Unfortunately to his way of thinking, though not to anyone else’s, the ride through the mountains proved hot, tedious, and uneventful—except for a strange accident.

  It happened on the steepest part of the road up to the main pass. In the sticky summer heat the caravan made slow progress that day and camped early when they found a reasonably flat area off to one side of the dusty trail. Lined with some sort of shrubby tree that Gwairyc couldn’t put a name to, a muddy rivulet ran nearby, flowing out of the forest cover and heading downhill. The hot day had exhausted everyone. The stock had to be tended and fed, exhaustion or no, but no one spoke more than they absolutely had to. With his
share of the work done, one of the muleteers pulled off his boots, rolled up his trousers, and trotted off to soak his aching feet downstream from their drinking water. Gwairyc had just turned Nevyn’s mule into the general herd when he heard the man scream. Without thinking he drew his sword and ran just as a second agonized shriek rang out to guide him.

  In the spotty shade the muleteer was lying sprawled with one leg held high in the air. It was such an odd posture that it took Gwairyc a moment to notice the blood sheeting down the muleteer’s leg. The fellow had stepped into a wire snare and tripped it. Now the thin wire was biting ever deeper into his unprotected ankle as he flailed his arms and screamed.

  ‘Hold still!’ Gwairyc put all his noble-born authority into his voice. ‘You’ll be hurt worse if you don’t.’

  The fellow looked his way, sobbed once, and fainted. Gwairyc trotted over and considered the wire. He had no desire to blunt his blade by trying to cut it. His inspection showed that the thin strand forming the noose had been knotted repeatedly over a much thicker wire, reinforced with rope, that formed the long portion of the snare and anchored the whole contraption to a nearby sapling. By then another muleteer and Wffyn himself had come at the run. With a cascade of foul oaths the muleteer set to work untwisting the strands whilst the merchant supported the injured man’s leg.

  ‘I’ve never seen such a cursed strong snare,’ Wffyn remarked. ‘What was the hunter after, I wonder? A bear?’

  ‘That thing would never take a bear’s weight,’ Gwairyc said. ‘A deer? Not likely, either.’

  ‘Huh.’ Wffyn’s face was beginning to turn pale. He looked away from the muleteer’s blood-soaked leg. ‘Makes you wonder if that trap was set to catch a man. Guarding somewhat, like, close by here.’