Daggerspell

  “Nicely done,” Rhegor said. “The gwerbret keeps his eyes open wider than most men.”

  Madoc winced as if he’d been slapped.

  “Here, Your Grace, just a way of speaking.”

  “You can’t know how deep that cuts,” Madoc said. “About Gerraent and his god-cursed passion? I saw it, and here, like a fool I held my tongue, hoping I was wrong.”

  “If it’s any comfort, there’s not a soul in the kingdom who would blame you.”

  “No comfort at all when a man blames himself. But then I heard that our prince had gotten her away in the end. Well, think I, the least I can do is find the lass before winter and make sure she and child will be warm.” His voice broke. “Too late now. I’ll never make it up to her.”

  A cold silence hung in the room.

  “How fares Lady Rodda?” Rhegor said at last. “I grieve for her, but I haven’t dared to ride her way.”

  “Well, she’s a warrior’s wife and the mother of warriors. Her heart will heal in time. By every god in the sky, I failed Blaen, too! A piss-poor excuse for a man I am, taking a man’s fealty and then letting things sweep him to his death.”

  “And the Falcon no longer flies. It’s a hard thing to see the death of a clan.”

  “And death it is, truly. The King has given the Falcon’s lands to the Boar as a blood price for Blaen’s murder. What lord will ever take that device again, cursed as it?”

  “True enough,” Nevyn joined in. “And in a while, the bards will sing the ballad of Brangwen and Gerraent. I wonder what they’ll make of it.”

  Rhegor snorted profoundly.

  “Somewhat better than it deserves. Oh, no doubt.”

  DEVERRY, 1058

  If a man would claim the dweomer, he must learn patience above all else. No fruit falls from a tree before it is ripe.

  —The Secret Book of

  Cadwallon the Druid

  So early in the spring, the river water ran cold. Giggling and splashing, Jill jumped up and down in the shallows until she could bear to kneel on the sandy bottom. Curious Wildfolk clustered round, faces that appeared in the ripples, sleek silver forms that darted like fish, while she washed her hair as well as she could without soap. She’d never worried before about being clean, but lately it had grown important. Once she was done, she rolled on the grassy bank like a horse to get dry, then hurried back to the camp among the hazel trees. Out in the meadow beyond, her gray pony and Da’s warhorse were grazing quietly. Cullyn himself was still over at a nearby farmhouse buying food. Jill rushed to get dressed before he returned. Just lately, it was troubling to think of Da seeing her without any clothes.

  Before she put on her shirt, she looked at her chest and the two definite swellings of little breasts. At times, she wished that they would just go away. She was thirteen, an ominous age since many girls married at fourteen. Hurriedly she pulled on the shirt and belted it in, then rummaged in the saddlebags and found a comb and a fragment of cracked mirror. The gray gnome, all long nose and warts, materialized next to her. When Jill held up the mirror to him, he looked behind it as if searching for the rest of the gnome he saw there.

  “That’s you. See, there’s your nose.”

  The bewildered creature merely sighed and hunkered down on the grass next to her.

  “If it was bigger maybe you’d understand. Da said he’d buy me a proper mirror for my birthday, but I don’t want one. Stupid town lasses primp all the time, but I’m a silver dagger’s daughter.”

  The gnome nodded agreement and scratched his armpit.

  When Cullyn returned, they set out riding for Dun Mannanan, a coastal town on the eastern border of Deverry province. It turned out to be a collection of wooden houses that straggled along a river, where decrepit, aging fishing boats were docked. Rather than having town walls, it merely faded into the surrounding farmlands, and the smell of drying fish was everywhere. On a muddy street that curved up to the river’s edge, they found a shabby wooden inn, where the innkeep took Cullyn’s coin without even a glance at his silver dagger. Since it was market day, the tavern room was crowded with men, a sullen lot, by and large, and Jill noticed that a remarkably large number of them wore swords. As soon as they were alone, she asked Cullyn if Dun Mannanan were a pirate haven.

  “Nah, nah, nah, they’re all smugglers. Those stinking boats out in the river are faster than they look. They carry in many a pretty thing under the mackerel.”

  “Doesn’t the local lord stop it?”

  “The local lord’s in it up to his neck. Now, don’t you say one word about this out in public, mind.”

  Once the horses were tended, they went down to the market fair. Down by the river, people had set up wooden booths, but many simply displayed their goods on brown cloths thrown onto the ground. There was food of all sorts—cabbages and greens, cheeses and eggs, live chickens tied upside down onto poles, suckling pigs, and rabbits. Cullyn brought them each a chunk of roast pork on a stick to eat as they looked at the booths with cloth, pottery, and metal work.

  “I don’t see any fancy lace. Pity. I wanted to buy you some for your birthday.”

  “Oh, Da, I don’t want that sort of thing.”

  “Indeed? Then what about a pretty dress?”

  “Da!”

  “A new doll? Jewelry?”

  “Da, you’d best be jesting.”

  “Naught of the sort. Here, I know a jeweler in this town, and I’ll wager he’s not even at the fair. Come along.”

  Down near the edge of town, where the green commons met the last houses, they came to a little shop with a wooden sign painted with a silver brooch. When Cullyn pushed open the door, silver bells jingled melodiously above. The chamber was just a thin slice of the round house cut off by an intricate wickerwork partition. The doorway in the wickerwork was covered by an old green blanket.

  “Otho?” Cullyn called. “Are you here?”

  “I am,” a deep voice said from within. “Would I be leaving the door unlocked if I weren’t?”

  The owner of the voice shoved aside the blanket and came out. He was the shortest man Jill had ever seen, just about five feet tall, but broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, like a miniature blacksmith. He had a thick shock of gray hair, a tidy gray beard, and piercing black eyes.

  “Cullyn of Cerrmor, by the gods! Who’s this with you? Your son, from the look of him.”

  “My daughter, in truth. And I want to buy her a trinket for her birthday.”

  “A lass, are you?” Otho looked Jill over carefully. “Well, so you are, and one old enough to be thinking about her dowry at that. We’d best turn some of your Da’s coin into jewels, then, before he drinks the lot away.”

  Otho led them into the workshop, a thick slice of the house. In the center, just under the smoke hole in the roof, were a hearth and a small forge. Off to one side stood a long low workbench, scattered with tools, wooden boxes, and a half-eaten meal of bread and smoked meat. Lying in the clutter were a handful of small rubies. Cullyn picked one up and held it so that it caught the light.

  “Nice stones.”

  “They are. But I’ll trouble you to not ask where I got them.”

  With a grin Cullyn rolled the ruby back onto the bench. Otho perched on the stool and had a thoughtful bite of bread.

  “Brooches, rings, bracelets?” he said with his mouth full. “Or does she want a jeweled coffer? Earrings, maybe?”

  “None of those, truly. But a silver dagger.”

  Jill laughed, a crow of victory, and threw her arms around him. With a sly smile Cullyn untangled himself and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Now, that’s a strange gift for a lass,” Otho said.

  “Not for this little hellcat here. She’s badgered her old father here into teaching her swordcraft.”

  Otho turned to Jill in surprise. The gray gnome popped into existence, squatting on the workbench, and laid one long warty finger on a ruby. Jill reached out and swatted it away, then realized from the way that Otho
’s eyes were moving that he, too, could see it. With an injured look, the gnome vanished. Otho gave Jill a bland conspiratorial smile.

  “Well, lass, no doubt, you’ll want the same falcon device as your Da.”

  “By the asses of the gods, Otho,” Cullyn broke in. “It was fourteen years ago when you made me my dagger. You’ve got a cursed long memory.”

  “I do. Memory serves a man well if he’ll only use it. Now, you’re in a bit of luck. I’ve got a dagger all made up, so all I have to do is grave the device on. A year or so ago, another silver dagger brought me a lad to pledge to your band. I got the dagger finished, but cursed if the lad didn’t go and ask questions about the fishing boats, and so he never lived to pay me for it. Luckily I’d never put on the device, or I’d have been out a good bit of coin.”

  Late in the afternoon, Jill went back to the smith’s to get the finished dagger. She ran greedy hands over the hilt and a cautious finger down the blade. While an ordinary Deverry craftsman would have drawn a falcon as a circle for a head on top of a pair of triangles for wings, Otho’s work was a lifelike side view, detailed to give the illusion of feathers, and yet it was only an inch tall.

  “This is truly beautiful,” Jill said.

  The gnome materialized for a look. When Jill obligingly held the dagger up, Otho laughed under his breath.

  “You’re a strange one, young Jill,” Otho said. “Seeing the Wildfolk as clear as day.”

  “Oh, I’m strange, am I now? Good smith, you see them, too.”

  “So I do, so I do, but why I do is my secret, and not for the telling. As. for you, lass, is there elven blood in your mother’s clan? You can tell by looking at him that there’s no such thing in Cullyn’s.”

  “What? How could there be? Elves are only a children’s tale.”

  “Oh, are they now? Well, the elves you hear about are a tale and no more, perhaps, but that’s because no one round here knows about the true elves. They’re called the Elcyion Lacar, they are, and if you ever meet one, don’t trust him a jot. Flighty, they are, all of that lot.”

  Jill smiled politely, but she was sure that Otho must be daft. He put his chin on his hand and considered her.

  “Tell me somewhat,” he said at last. “Does it suit you, riding with your father? Cullyn’s a cursed harsh man.”

  “Not to me. Well, most of the time, not to me. But it’s splendid, getting to go everywhere and see everything.”

  “And what’s going to happen when it’s time for you to marry?”

  “I’ll never marry.”

  Otho smiled in pronounced skepticism.

  “Well, some women never marry,” Jill said. “They get a craft, like spinning or suchlike, and they open a shop.”

  “True enough, and maybe you will find the right craft someday. Here, young Jill, I’ll tell you a riddle. If ever you find no one, ask him what craft to take.”

  “Your pardons, but what—”

  “Told you it was a riddle, didn’t I? Remember, if ever you find nev yn, he’ll tell you more. Now you’d best get back to your Da before he gives you a slap for dawdling.”

  All the way back to the inn, Jill puzzled over Otho and his riddle both. Finally she decided that the riddle meant that no one could ever tell her what to do, because she’d do exactly what she wanted. Otho himself, however, was not so easily solved.

  “Da?” she asked. “What sort of man is Otho?”

  “What? What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, he doesn’t seem like an ordinary man.”

  Cullyn shrugged in vague irritation.

  “Well, it must be hard on a man, being born that short,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s what makes him so gruff and grasping. Just to begin with, what lass would ever have him?”

  Jill supposed that his answer made sense, but still, she was left with the feeling that there was something very odd about Otho the silversmith.

  That evening, the tavern room filled up fast with merchants who’d been to the fair and farmers having a last tankard before they went home. Although the room was hot from the fire in the hearth, and clouds of midges swarmed around the candle lanterns, Cullyn showed no inclination to leave after dinner. With coin in his pocket, he would drink all night, Jill knew, and she got ready to argue with him later to keep him from spending the lot. Eventually four riders in the local lord’s warband, wearing fox blazons on their shirts, came in to drink and chivy the serving lass. Jill kept a nervous eye on them. Three of them were laughing and talking, but the fourth stood on the edge of things. Since he looked no older than fifteen, doubtless he had yet to prove himself in battle or in a brawl. Jill hoped that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to challenge Cullyn, because he was a handsome lad in his way. All at once, she realized that he was boldly looking back at her. She grabbed her tankard of ale and buried her nose in it.

  “Not so fast,” Cullyn snapped.

  “My apologies, Da. Here, shall I fetch you another? The tavernman’s so busy he never looks our way.”

  Jill got the ale from the tavernman and began making her way back, carefully keeping her eye on the foaming-full tankard. When she felt a touch on her shoulder, she looked up to find the young rider grinning at her.

  “Hold a minute,” he said. “Can I ask you somewhat?”

  “You can, but I might not answer.”

  The other Fox riders gathered round and snickered. The lad blushed and went on in wavering determination.

  “Uh, no insult, mind, but are you a lad or a lass?”

  “A lass, but it’s nothing to you.”

  The riders laughed. One nudged the lad and whispered, “Oh, go on.”

  “Uh, well, I thought you were a lass, because you’re so pretty.”

  Jill was caught speechless.

  “Well, you are,” the lad went on, a bit more boldly. “Can I stand you a tankard?”

  “Now, here.” It was Cullyn, striding over. “What’s this?”

  “He was just talking to me, Da.”

  The lad stepped back sharply, stumbling into his friends.

  “Listen, you young dolt. I happen to be Cullyn of Cerrmor. Ever hear that name?”

  The lad’s face went pale. The other Fox riders joustled each other in their hurry to fall back and leave the lad to face Cullyn alone.

  “I see you have,” Cullyn said. “Now, none of you are going to say one more word to my daughter.”

  “We won’t. I swear it.”

  “Good.” Cullyn turned on Jill. “And you’re not saying one more word to them. Get back to the table.”

  Slopping the ale a bit, Jill hurried back to the table and sat down. Cullyn stood with his arms folded over his chest while the Fox riders unceremoniously ran out the door; then he came and sat beside her.

  “You listen to me! The next time any young lout says a wrong word to you, you walk on by and find me. By the hells, you’re getting older, aren’t you? I never truly noticed how much older before.”

  When their eyes met, Jill felt that she’d somehow become shameful and failed him. She disliked the way her father was looking at her, too, a cold appraisal that made her feel unclean. Abruptly he looked away, and she knew that he was as troubled as she was. She sat there miserably and wished that she could talk to her mother. It was only later that she remembered the young rider telling her she was pretty. In spite of herself, she was pleased.

  II

  On a day when the trees stood scarlet, and a cold drizzle turned the streets to muck, Nevyn rode into Dun Mannanan. He rented a chamber in the inn, stabled his horse and pack mule, then wrapped himself in his patched cloak and hurried to the shop of Otho the silversmith. For reasons of its own, the dweomer watched over the band of silver daggers; since most of them were decent enough lads who had only committed one grave fault, they came in handy for those rare times when the dweomer needed some help from the sword. Nevyn knew every smith in the kingdom who served them, though few were as strange as Otho, a dwarf in long exile from the kingdoms
of his race far to the north. When Nevyn appeared at his door, the silversmith greeted him heartily and took him into the workshop, where a fire burned on the hearth.

  “Would you care for a bit of mulled ale, my lord?”

  “I would. These old bones are feeling the damp.”

  Otho allowed himself a smile at the jest. They had, after all, known each other for some two hundred years. Nevyn pulled the only chair in the room up to the fire and held out his hands to the heat while Otho bustled around, filling a metal flagon with ale from the barrel by the wall, adding a stick of Bardek cinnamon, then popping on a lid to keep the ashes out when he stood the flagon in the coals.

  “I was hoping you’d ride my way,” Otho said. “I might have a bit of news for you. That lass of yours, the one you’ve been vexing yourself over for so long, is it time for her to be reborn again?”

  “She’s been born, actually. Here, have you seen her?”

  “I may have, I may not. I don’t have the second sight, my lord, or the dweomer neither, as well you know. But a passing strange little lass rode my way this summer. Her name was Jill, and oh, she’d been born some thirteen summers ago, I’d say. Her father’s a silver dagger, you see, and he has his daughter riding with him. It’s truly strange to see a human being treat his child so well, but that’s neither here nor there. His name’s Cullyn of Cerrmor. Ever heard of him?”

  “The man they say is the best swordsman in Deverry?”

  “The very one, and he is, too. His mark is the striking falcon.”

  “Oh, by the gods! It could be. It just could be.”

  Otho got a clot of rags and gingerly took the flagon from the fire, then poured the steaming ale into a pair of tankards. Thirteen would mark the right number of years since I saw that vision, Nevyn thought, and it would be like Gerraent to end up with that dagger in his belt. If she were wandering with a silver dagger, it was no wonder he’d never found her in all his long years of trying. Suddenly he felt weary. For all that Cullyn of Cerrmor had great glory, it would be a hard job to track him down. Otho handed him a tankard.