On the fourth day they crossed the border into Deverry proper, though Rhodry didn’t see much change in the countryside to mark it. Toward noon, the bargemaster told him that they’d make Lughcarn that night.
“It’s the end of our run, silver dagger, but I’ll wager you can find another barge going down into Dun Deverry.”
“Splendid. This is a cursed eight faster than riding, and I’ve got to reach Cerrmor as soon as ever I can.”
The bargemaster scratched his beard thoughtfully.
“Don’t know much about the river traffic south out of the king’s city, but I’ll wager there’s some.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Well, whether there is or not, you’ll be only about a week’s ride from Cerrmor then.”
By late afternoon Rhodry saw the first sign that they were coming close to the city. At first he thought he was seeing clouds on the southern horizon, but the steersman enlightened him. A dark pall of smoke hung in the air, smoke from the charcoal ovens, smoke from the charcoal itself as it fed the forges to turn rough iron into Lughcarn steel. By the time they turned into the docks just outside the walled city, his linen shirt was flecked with soot. The docks themselves and the warehouses just beyond were grimy gray. As he rode through the gate in the soot-blackened city walls, Rhodry was thinking that he’d be very glad to leave Lughcarn behind.
Yet it was a rich city under the soot. As he searched for a tavern poor enough to take in a silver dagger, Rhodry passed fine houses, some of them as tall as a poor lord’s broch, with carved plaques over the doors proclaiming the name of one great merchant clan or another. There were temples all over the city, too, some to obscure gods usually relegated to a tiny shrine in the corner of a temple of Bel, some, like the great temple of Bel itself, as large as duns, with gardens and outbuildings of their own. Until he finally found the poor section of town, down by the river on the southern bank, he saw very few beggars, and even among the wooden huts of the longshoremen and charcoal burners he saw almost no one in rags and not a child who looked in danger of starving.
He found a shabby tavern whose owner agreed to let him sleep in the hayloft of the stable out back for a couple of coppers. After he stabled his horse, he went back in and got the best dinner the place offered—mutton stew lensed with grease and served with stale bread to sop up the gravy. He took it to a table where he could keep his back to the wall and looked over the other patrons while he ate. Most of them looked like honest workingmen, gathered there to have a tankard while they chewed over the local gossip, but one of them might have been a traveler like himself, a tall fellow with straight dark hair and skin colored like a walnut shell that bespoke some Bardek blood in his veins. Once or twice, Rhodry caught the fellow looking at him curiously, and when he’d finished eating, the fellow strolled over to him with a tankard in his hand.
“Have you come from the north, silver dagger?”
“I have at that. Why?”
“That’s the way I’m heading. I was wondering what the roads are like up in Gwaentaer.”
“Now, that I can’t tell you, because I came down on a barge.”
“A good way to travel when you’re coming downriver, but not so good going up. Well, my thanks, anyway.” Yet he lingered for a moment, as if wondering about something, then finally sat down. “You know, a silver dagger did me a favor once, a while back, and I wouldn’t mind returning it to a fellow member of his band.” He dropped his voice to a murmur. “You look like you hail from Eldidd.”
“I do.”
“You wouldn’t be Rhodry of Aberwyn, would you?”
“I am. Here, where did you hear my name?”
“Oh, it’s all over the south. That’s what I mean about returning a favor. Let me give you a tip, like. It seems that every misbegotten gwerbret has riders out looking for you. I’d head west if I were you.”
“What? By the black ass of the Lord of Hell, what are they looking for me for?”
The fellow leaned closer.
“There’s been a charge laid against you by a Tieryn Aegwyc up in Cerrgonney. He claims you took his brother’s head in battle.”
Instantly, Rhodry understood—or thought he did. No doubt Graemyn had put the blame on him in order to reach a settlement in the peace treaty. After all, who would believe a silver dagger’s word against that of a lord?
“Ye gods! I did no such thing!”
“It’s of no matter to me. But like I say, you’d best be careful which way you ride.”
“You have my thanks from the bottom of my heart.”
All that evening, Rhodry kept one eye on the tavern door. If that charge stood up in a gwerbretal court, he would be beheaded as the holy laws demanded. Fortunately, his years on the long road had taught him many a thing about avoiding trouble. He could no longer ride the barges south, not when they could be called to the bank at any point by the king’s guard and searched. He would have to slip south on back roads and, of course, lie about his name. Cerrmor itself was big enough so that he’d be able to stay unknown for at least a day or two. Once he found Jill, he’d have a witness on his side. Besides, he reminded himself, Nevyn’s there too. Even a gwerbret would listen when the old man spoke.
In the morning, he rode out the east gate to plant a false trail. Much later, when it was too late, he realized that Tieryn Benoic would never have been party to such a falsehood.
“Someone worked you over good and proper, lad,” said Gwel the leech. “Who was it?”
“Oh, er, ah, well,” Perryn mumbled. “A silver dagger.”
“Indeed? Well, it’s a foolish man who earns a silver dagger’s wrath.”
“I … er … know that now.”
In the polished mirror hanging on the wall of the leech’s shop, Perryn could see his face, still blue, green, and swollen.
“You should have had this broken tooth out long before this,” Gwel said.
“True-spoken, but I couldn’t ride until a couple of days ago. He broke some of my ribs, too.”
“I see. Well, you give silver daggers a wide berth after this.”
“You have my sworn word on that.”
Having the tooth pulled was more painful than having it broken, since it took much longer, and the only painkilller the leech could offer him was a goblet of strong mead. It was some hours before Perryn could leave the leech’s shop and stagger back to his inn on the outskirts of Leryn. He flopped down on the bed in his chamber and stared miserably at the ceiling while his mind circled endlessly round and round like a donkey tied to a mill wheel: what was he going to do? The thought of returning to Cerrgonney to face his uncle’s scorn made him feel physically sick to his stomach. And there was Jill. It seemed as the days went by that he loved her more than ever, that he’d never appreciated what he had until he’d lost it. Thinking that most men were no different about those they loved was no consolation. If only he could talk to her, beg her to let him explain, tell her how much he loved her—he was sure she would listen, if only he could get her alone, if only he could get her away from that fellow with the terrifying stare and the even more terrifying dweomer. If only. He didn’t even know which way they’d gone.
Or could he find her? In his muddled state, half mad with pain and the aftermath of the leech’s mead, he found himself thinking of her as his heart’s true home, and with the thought came the pull, the sharp tug at his mind that had always shown him the way to other homes. Slowly, minding his aching jaw, he sat up on the bed and went very still. Truly, he could feel it: south. She’d gone south. He wept, but this time in rising hope, that he could track her down, follow her along until he had a chance alone with her, and somehow—oh, by great Kerun himself—steal her back again.
“Now this is passing strange,” Salamander announced. “Rhodry’s still heading south, but by the ears of Epona’s steed, why is he taking every rotten cow path and village lane instead of riding on the king’s good roads?”
Jill turned to look at him. They were sitting on the bow of a river b
arge, and Salamander was using the foaming, sun-flecked waters as a focus for scrying. Since she still was seeing with power, the water seemed like solid, carved silver, but she could remind herself now that what she was seeing was only illusionary. She refused to believe that she was seeing a hidden reality no matter how often Salamander insisted on it.
“Does he seem to be looking for a hire?”
“Not in the least, and I’ve been watching him for two days now. It seems that he knows where he’s going, but he’s being cursed careful on the way.” With an irritable toss of his head, he looked away from the river. “Well, I’ll spy out the esteemed brother again later. How are you feeling this morn?”
“A lot better. At least things are holding still most of the time.”
“Good. Then my unpracticed cure is actually working.”
“You have my heartfelt thanks, truly.”
For a while she idly watched the southern horizon, where Lughcarn’s smoke hung like a tiny cloud. She wished that she could simply forget about Perryn, that Salamander had some magic that would wipe her mind clean of his memory, but she knew that the shame she felt would nag at her for years. She felt as unclean as a priestess who’d broken her vows and was somehow to blame, too, for her abduction. If she’d only told Rhodry, or called to Nevyn earlier, or—the “If only’s” ran on and on.
“From the hiraedd in your eyes,” Salamander said abruptly, “I think me you’re brooding again.”
“Oh, how can I not brood? It’s all well and good to chase after Rhodry, but I imagine he’ll only curse me to my face when we find him.”
“Why? You were no more at fault than one of the horses Perryn stole.”
She merely shook her head to keep tears away.
“Now, here, Jill, my turtledove. Your mind’s back, you can think again. Let me tell you somewhat. I’ve been thinking about our horse-stealing lord, and I’ve talked with Nevyn, too. There’s somewhat cursed peculiar about that lad. He has what you might call a wound of the soul, the way he pours out his life at will.”
“But I’m the one who fell right into his wretched arms. Ah ye gods, I never dreamt that I was as weak-willed as some slut of a tavern lass.”
Salamander growled under his breath.
“Haven’t you listened to one blasted word I said? It’s not a question of weak will. You were ensorceled, dweomer-bound and dweomer-muddled. Once his life force swept over you, you had no will of your own, only his will. All his lust ran to you like water through a ditch.”
For a moment she wanted to vomit as she remembered how it felt to have him smile at her in his particular way.
“Why do you call it a wound?” she said.
“Because it’s going to kill him, sooner or later.”
“Good. I only wish I could be there to watch.”
“And no one expects you to feel differently, my delicate little lass. But can’t you see, Jill? You’re as blameless as if he’d tied you down and raped you by force.”
“Ah ye gods, and that’s what I hate most. I felt so beastly helpless!”
“You were helpless.”
“Oh, true enough. It’s a cursed hard thing to admit.”
“Boils need lancing, on the other hand.”
When she threw a fake punch his way, he smiled.
“Truly, you’re coming back to your old self. But don’t you see the curious thing? Given that Perryn has no true dweomer, then where by all the hells does this power come from? What gave him the wound?”
“As much as I hate to talk about the worm-rotted bastard, I’ll admit the question’s of some interest.”
“Of great interest, especially to Nevyn. Unfortunately, at the moment, there is no answer.”
“Well, if anyone can find it, it’s Nevyn.”
“Precisely. Especially once he gets his hands on him.”
“Is he planning on hunting Perryn down?”
“Not truly. I’ve been waiting to tell you this until you were stronger, but I think you can bear it now. Perryn’s been following us.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. Salamander caught her hand and held it between both of his.
“You’re in no danger now, none at all.”
“Not now, maybe, but what about when we’re out on the roads again, following Rhodry?”
“By then Perryn will be on his way to Eldidd under armed guard. Here, there’s a dweomerman at court named Lord Madoc. He’ll have Perryn arrested as soon as he enters the city, then send him to Nevyn. From what you told me, that rambling scribe in our lordling’s saddlebags is more than enough reason for the king’s wardens to take him under arrest.”
“So we’re going to Dun Deverry?”
“We are. And we may not have to leave it, either. Do you know Rhodry’s cousin Blaen of Cwm Peel?”
“I do.”
“The good gwerbret’s at court at the moment. Nevyn wants us to speak with him. It seems that the king’s sent out the word that he wants to see Rhodry. Apparently the various gwerbrets are keeping watch for him, and when they find him, they’ll send him straight to Dun Deverry.”
“The king? What—”
“I don’t know, but I think me we can guess. The king knows Rhys won’t be getting any more heirs for Aberwyn.”
“Recall.”
“Just that. So soon enough, Jill, you’ll be having a splendid wedding.”
“Oh, will I now? You sound like a village idiot. Think! They’re never going to let the heir to the most important rhan in Eldidd marry a silver dagger’s bastard. The best I could hope for is being his wretched mistress again, living in his court and hating his wife. Well, if he even wants me anymore. What do you think this is, one of your tales?”
“I have the distinct and revolting feeling that I was thinking just that. Jill, please, forgive me.”
She merely shrugged and watched the farmland gliding by. A herd of white cattle with rusty-red ears were drinking from the river, watched over by a lad and two dogs.
“Do you forgive me?” he said at last.
“I do, and my apologies, too. I’m all to pieces still.”
“So you are. After you’ve baited our trap for Perryn, you could just ride away without seeing Rhodry, if you wanted.”
“Never. Maybe he’ll curse me to my face, but I want to tell him that I always loved him.”
Salamander started to speak, but she covered her face with her hands and wept.
The king’s palace in Dun Deverry was enormous, six broch towers joined by a sprawling complex of half-brochs, surrounded by outbuildings, and protected by a double ring of curtain walls. As an honored guest, Blaen, Gwerbret Cwm Peel, had a luxurious suite high up in one of the outer towers, so that he had a good view of the gardens that lay between the pair of walls. In his reception chamber were four chairs with cushions of purple Bardek velvet as well as a table and a hearth of its own. Although Blaen cared little for such luxuries as things in themselves, he appreciated them as marks of the king’s favor. Besides, his wife, Canyffa, was accompanying him on this trip, and he liked to see her surrounded by comfort. A tall woman with dark hair and doelike brown eyes, Canyffa was as calm as he was excitable. Although their marriage had been of the usual arranged sort, Blaen privately considered that he’d been exceptionally lucky in his wife. At moments, he could even admit to her that he loved her.
This particular morning Canyffa had been called to wait upon the queen in Her Majesty’s private chamber—a signal honor, but one that had come her way before. Blaen perched on the windowsill in their bedchamber and watched as she dressed with special care. After one of her serving women laid out several dresses on the bed, she sent the lass away and studied the choices, finally picking a modest one of dove-gray Bardek silk, a color that showed off the reds and whites of her husband’s clan’s plaid to advantage.
“I think Gwerbret Savyl’s wife is going to be attending the queen this morning as well,” she remarked. “I assume that my lord would like me to keep my e
ars open.”
“Your lord would like naught better, truly. What’s the wife like, anyway?”
Canyffa considered before answering.
“A weasel, but a lovely one. I gather that they’re well suited.”
“In weaselhood, perhaps. No one would call Savyl lovely. Cursed if I know why he’s sticking his oar in this particular stream! Camynwaen’s a long way from Belglaedd. What use can Talidd possibly be to him?”
“I believe they’ve got blood kin in common, but still, the point’s well taken, my lord. I shall see if I can cultivate the lovely Lady Braeffa.” She paused for a quick smile. “But if I’m going to sacrifice myself this way, I shall expect a handsome present from our Rhodry when he’s recalled.”
“Some of the finest Bardek silver, no doubt. I’ll make sure he honors you properly. Well—if we can get him recalled, anyway.”
While Canyffa was off with the queen, Blaen had a guest of his own, a powerful man who was worth another sort of cultivation. He had his page fetch a silver flagon of mead and two glass goblets, then sent the lad away. The gwerbret filled the glasses with his own hands and gave one to his guest, who took an appreciative sip. The recently ennobled Lord Madoc, third equerry to the king, was a slender man of about forty, with neatly trimmed blond hair barely touched with gray, and humorous blue eyes. He was also, or so it was said, Nevyn’s nephew. Indeed? Blaen thought to himself. But I’ll wager he’s another sorcerer, nephew or not. Since he’d been a successful horse breeder in Cantrae province before his recent court appointment, Madoc certainly did his job well, and he had a plain yet decent sort of manners that allowed him to fit into the court as smoothly as any minor lord—if not more so. Yet, every now and then, there was something about the way he looked or smiled that implied that the power and pomp of the court failed to impress him.