Daggerspell

  “Here, bard, how about a pleasant tale or two? I’m as sick as I can be of all this lusting after other men’s wives.”

  “Are you, now, captain? So am I.”

  Doryn winced, tossing his head like a fly-stung horse.

  “Do you think I’m blind?” Gweran said.

  “My apologies. It’s a shameful thing, truly, wanting another man’s woman.”

  “Just that. I’m glad to see you share my opinion. Is there anything wrong with making a shameful man feel shame?”

  “Nothing at all, and it’s a bard’s prerogative at that.”

  The next time Gweran sang one of the tales, he had the satisfaction of seeing the rest of the warband avoiding Tanyc’s eye at the mention of adultery. For the next few nights, Tanyc glowered into his tankard and barely breathed during the crucial song. When he judged the time was right, Gweran sang a bawdy song about an adulterous miller, who thought he was close to seducing the tavernman’s wife. All the time, the wife had been confiding in her husband, who was there with two strong friends to greet the would-be swain. They clapped the miller into an empty barrel, rolled him down the village street, and set him adrift in the river. When the other riders howled with laughter, Tanyc’s face went dead white.

  The very next morning, Tanyc met Gweran face to face out in the ward.

  “You little bastard,” Tanyc growled.

  “Am I, now? And what injury have I ever done you?”

  Trapped. Tanyc could hardly admit his own guilt by mentioning the choice of songs.

  “If you have an injury,” Gweran went on, “by all means, lay it before Lord Maroic for judgment. I’ll gladly accept his decree.”

  Tanyc turned scarlet, spun on his heel, and strode off. Gweran smiled after his retreating back. You fool, he thought, a bard has weapons stronger than steel. Although he knew that Maroic would settle this matter quietly if only he asked, Gweran wanted more. Getting rid of Tanyc wasn’t enough vengeance.

  That very night, after still another tale of adultery gone wrong, Gweran begged Maroic’s leave to sing a new song of his own composing about hunting in the summer. Since he loved hunting, of course the lord agreed. As Gweran tuned up the harp, he saw that Tanyc was relaxed over a tankard of ale and doubtless thinking his mockery over for the night. Gweran began to sing about flying hawks out in the meadow, where the falcon flies the highest of all and swoops down on pretty birds for sport. The warband fell silent, watching Tanyc, whose hand gripped the tankard so hard his knuckles were white. Gweran went on singing about the pretty white dove whom a little lad in the town loved for a pet, but the cruel hunter launched his falcon for her. Greedy to rend her in his claws, the falcon chased her all over the field, while her little heart was breaking in fear as she fluttered pathetically ahead. Just as the falcon was about to strike, up from the hedgerow sprang the lad who loved her and shot the falcon through the heart with an arrow.

  “And the pretty white dove fluttered safe to her love,” Gweran sang, then broke off in midline.

  White as the dove, Tanyc sprang from his seat and strode down the hall. Gweran set his harp aside and gave him a mild smile.

  “You bastard,” Tanyc whispered. “That’s enough!”

  “Enough of what? There’s a fair bit more of the song to come, my friend.”

  Tanyc drew his sword and swung in one smooth motion, but Gweran was ready. He threw himself backwards off the table as the hall broke into shouting. Gweran tumbled inelegantly into the straw and scrambled up in time to see the warband mobbing Tanyc. They tackled him, threw him down, and disarmed him. Lord Maroic was on his feet, yelling for order as the maidservants screamed. At last the hall was quiet. The servants pressed back against the wall; a few women were weeping. Twisting his arms tight behind him, three men hauled Tanyc to his feet.

  “What’s all this?” Maroic snapped. “Have you gone daft? Drawing your sword on a bard, and him unarmed at that!”

  In his comrades’ arms, Tanyc was shaking too hard to answer. Gweran stepped forward and did his best to look bewildered.

  “If you disliked the song as much as all that, you might simply have told me.”

  “You bastard!” Tanyc shouted. “You little bastard! You planned all this. You’ve been working on me for days!”

  “Hold your tongue,” Maroic snarled, stepping closer. “And why would the bard do such a thing?”

  The last piece of the trap sprung shut. Desperately Tanyc looked this way and that, as if he were begging someone to help him. Afraid to earn a bard’s revenge, the white-faced riders stayed silent.

  “Ill temper is one thing, impiety another,” Maroic went on. “I hate to do this, but the laws are the laws. Take him out and hang him. Do it now. I want it over with.”

  Tanyc went as limp in his captor’s arms as if he were going to faint. By the hearth, Cadda screamed, burst out weeping, and went running for the staircase.

  “It’s a hard thing, truly,” Maroic remarked to all and sundry. “But no man draws on my bard and lives to boast about it. Does anyone here dare quibble over my judgment?”

  When everyone shook their heads in a terrified no, Maroic nodded in satisfaction.

  “Go on, hang him. Take the torches and shove him off the wall. No use in letting him brood about it all night long. I want it over and done with.”

  Shouting a war cry, Tanyc made a desperate struggle, breaking free and hitting out bare-handed at his captors. Doubtless he was hoping that they’d cut him down with a sword, but the warband wrestled him to the floor and bound him hand and foot. As they dragged him away, Gweran had to exert all his will to keep from smiling.

  By two hours after dawn, the news was all over Blaeddbyr that Lord Maroic had hanged one of his riders for threatening his bard. When Nevyn heard it, his first reaction was that he wasn’t surprised Gerraent would be such a dolt. Then he remembered that Tanyc wasn’t truly Gerraent, and that Gweran had more brains than ever Blaen did. Swearing under his breath, Nevyn ran to saddle his horse.

  Mercifully, they’d taken Tanyc’s body down from the wall by the time Nevyn arrived. The servant who took his horse told him that since the priests refused to say last rites over a hanged man, Tanyc was already buried in an unmarked grave behind the dun. Nevyn sought out Gweran, whom he found up in his chamber alone.

  “The women are taking the lads for a long walk,” Gweran said. “They’re all upset over this trouble.”

  “No doubt. I take it Tanyc took your warning a bit much to heart.”

  Gweran merely smiled.

  “Now, here!” Nevyn snarled. “Why didn’t you just have a word with Lord Maroic?”

  “Because I wanted Tanyc dead. Ye gods, did you ever doubt otherwise?”

  Nevyn let out his breath in an explosive little puff.

  “You’re a clever little murderer. Fit for one of your own ballads.”

  “My thanks. Are you going to tell Maroic?”

  “And do you think he’d believe a word of what I said? But it’s your Wyrd, my friend, and truly, you’ll pay for this someday.”

  “Where? In the shadowy Otherlands?”

  Gweran smiled so smugly that Nevyn felt like slapping him. Here Gweran had been given a chance to free himself from the tangled Wyrd that he shared with Gerraent—he could have let the past slip and honorably used the laws to send his enemy far away from his woman. Instead, he’d used the law like a sword.

  “Sooner or later,” Nevyn said, “this murder will come round to you again.”

  “Will it, now? I’ll take that chance.”

  Nevyn’s mouth ached from wanting to tell him the truth that he was forbidden to tell unasked: in this life, you may be safe enough, but in your next, or the next after that, sooner or later, this blood will fall on your head, you’ll still be bound to Gerraent by a chain of blood. And suddenly Nevyn was afraid: would he still be bound to them, too, simply because he might have seen Gweran’s mind and prevented the murder?

  It was two days before Nevyn s
aw Lyssa. When he brought Aderyn back to the dun, she met them at the gates and sent the boy off with Cadda. Leading his horse, Nevyn strolled with her down the grassy hill. In the strong sunlight she was pale and haggard from sleepless nights.

  “I want to tell you that Gweran’s decided to apprentice Addo to you,” Lyssa said. “You’ll need to discuss details, but the matter’s settled. Once Gwerro makes up his mind, it’s done.”

  “He’s a stubborn man, truly.”

  When Lyssa winced, he realized that she knew perfectly well what had happened.

  “Forgive an old man’s bluntness.”

  “No need for apologies. Ah, ye gods, it aches my heart, but what can I say? Gwerro only did it to protect me.”

  “Well, true spoken. No man in the warband will be stupid enough to trouble you after this.”

  Lyssa nodded, looking away to the distant view, where the Nerr sparkled in the afternoon haze.

  “He’s a good man, my husband.”

  Nevyn sighed, thinking that she had to believe it.

  “I know how lucky I am,” she went on. “It aches my heart sometimes, thinking that I was lucky to pick him.”

  “What? It should gladden your heart.”

  “All men would think so, truly. But ye gods, it sickened me, this whole thing! There I was, hiding in my chamber like a scared infant, and all the while thinking I was lucky that my man believed the truth, lucky that I had a good man to protect me.” Her eyes snapping, Lyssa turned to face him. “I’m sick to my heart of depending on luck. I wish I had a man’s power, and then luck could go back to the Lord of Hell.”

  “Hold your tongue! That sort of wish has a way of turning dangerous.”

  With a little shrug, Lyssa went back to watching the view, as if she were seeing a distant future there.

  ELDIDD, 1062

  The dweomer is a vast wilderness crossed by a few safe roads. To either side of the road lies uncharted country, filled with wild beasts, chasms, and swamps, dangers that can slay the unwary soul as surely as a wild boar will slay the unwary hunter. Mock them not until you have faced them.

  —The Secret Book of

  Cadwallon the Druid

  Grunting, sweating in the hot sun, the mules nipped and kicked as the muleteers tried to beat them into some semblance of order. The caravan turned into an unruly mob, swirling at the city gates in a cloud of brown dust. Cullyn of Cerrmor pulled his horse out of line and trotted over to the side of the road. By rising in his stirrups he could see Dregydd the merchant arguing about taxes and dues with the city guards, but the mules were raising so much dust that it was impossible to make out who was where in the caravan itself.

  “Jill!” Cullyn yelled at the top of his lungs. “Jill, get out of that mob.”

  After an anxious wait of a few minutes, Cullyn saw her guiding her chestnut gelding free and trotting over to join him. Sweat made streaks on her dusty face, and her blond hair looked the same color as her horse.

  “I hope Dregydd just pays them,” Jill said. “I want a bath.”

  “Me, too, and some ale as well.”

  They looked wistfully at the high city walls of Cernmeton, one of the few real towns in northwest Eldidd. Despite the typical town reek, a drift of sewage on the hot summer air, it promised comforts after a long week on the road. Dregydd, a nervous sort, had hired Cullyn as an armed guard for this trip, even though bandits were a rarity in this part of the kingdom.

  At last the caravan began to move, the men shouting, the mules braying, as they shoved their way into the close-packed warren of round houses, then wound along the curved streets until they reached a rambling stone inn. Cullyn dismounted and worked his way through the crowd of men and mules toward Dregydd. The grizzled merchant paid over a silver piece without haggling.

  “I’ve never had an easier time with my men, silver dagger.”

  As Cullyn turned away, the skinny innkeep, all greasy hair and narrow eyes, caught his arm.

  “No silver daggers in my inn!”

  “I’ve no desire to let your lice get a taste of me. Now get your hand off my arm.”

  A bit pale, the innkeep jumped back.

  Over by the east gate was a shabby wooden inn in a muddy yard where Cullyn and Jill had stayed before. Although the stables were only a row of tumbledown sheds, and somewhat cleaner than the tavern room itself, there the innkeep greeted Cullyn like a long-lost brother and gave them his best room, a tiny chamber in the upper story, with one skewed window. Bradd himself was a stout fellow who had lost an ear in a fight, to judge from the tooth scars on the remains.

  “Well, little Jill! You’re not so little anymore, are you? Why aren’t you married by now?”

  “Do you want to hold your tongue? Or do you want to lose your other ear?”

  “By the hells, Cullyn! You’ve raised a hellcat, haven’t you?”

  “Not truly. She was born a hellcat, and she’d be worse if it weren’t for me.”

  Jill threw a fake punch his way. At seventeen, she’d grown into a tall young woman, lean and muscled from their peculiar life, with a boyish stance and a boyish swagger to her walk that somehow did nothing to detract from her golden-haired beauty. She helped Bradd haul up the heavy buckets of hot water and the big wooden tub as easily as Cullyn did, then chased her father out of the chamber so she could lounge in her bath.

  The big half-round tavern room was mostly empty. A couple of hounds were asleep by the hearth, and a couple of colorless young men sat at a table conveniently near the door and talked in cant over their tankards. Both glanced at the gleaming hilt of the silver dagger in Cullyn’s belt, then strictly ignored him. Cullyn settled in at a table with his back to the wall and accepted a tankard of dark ale from Bradd. He was working on his third one by the time Jill came down, her wet hair clinging around her face. She gave him a narrow-eyed look.

  “And how many have you had?”

  “None of your rotten business. Here, finish this while I haul up some clean water for the tub.”

  He got up and left before she could say anything more. He refused to admit the real reason that he was drinking so much: he could feel himself growing older, needing to ease the ache of every old wound after a long ride or after sleeping beside the road. At thirty-five, Cullyn was middle-aged by any man’s standard in Deverry, and as a silver dagger, he was a marvel. He’d never known or even heard of a silver dagger who’d lasted as long as he had. And how much longer will it be before you face your Wyrd? he asked himself. You’ve got to find Jill a good man to take care of her. As usual, he shoved that thought away fast; he would deal with it later.

  At dinner that night, Cullyn and Jill ate in silence, enjoying each other’s company without a need for words. Every now and then, Jill would look into the fire at the hearth and smile, her eyes moving as if she saw things there. Over the years, Cullyn had grown used to this particular habit of hers, just as he was used to her seeing things in the clouds and the running streams. Although it griped his soul to admit it, he was sure that his daughter had what the country folk called the second sight. That evening, she gave him a further bit of evidence.

  “You know, Da, we should ride with Dregydd when he leaves town.”

  “Indeed? Then what a pity that he never asked us to.”

  “Oh, he will.”

  Cullyn was about to make some exasperated remark when Dregydd came into the tavern. He paused at the door and looked around at the unaccustomed squalor. A man in his thirties with pepper-and-salt hair, Dregydd was as lean and taut as a warrior from his hard-riding life. When Cullyn hailed him, he smiled in relief and hurried over.

  “I’m sincerely glad I finally found you. I’ve been thinking, silver dagger. In about a week, I’ll be riding west. If you’ll wait in town to guard the caravan, I’ll pay for your lodgings.”

  Jill smiled smugly out at nothing.

  “Sounds like you’re expecting trouble,” Cullyn said to Dregydd.

  “Well, not truly expecting it, like. It’s
just that you’d best be ready for trouble when you trade with the Westfolk.”

  “The who?”

  Dregydd gave him an odd smile, as if he were nursing an important secret.

  “A tribe who lives far to the west. They’re not ordinary Eldidd men, not by the hells they aren’t, but they raise the best horses in the kingdom, and they’re always willing to trade for iron goods. Now, I’ve never had any trouble with the Westfolk themselves, mind, but sometimes the muleteers get a little, well, strange, way out there on the edge of nowhere. I’d like to have you along.”

  “I’m on, then. A hire’s a hire.”

  “Splendid! After we’ve done our trading, we’ll be coming back through Cannobaen. That’s this little border town on the seacoast. You might find better work for your sword there, too. I hear there’s some kind of trouble brewing around Cannobaen.”

  “Well and good, then. Send one of your lads over to tell me the night before we leave.”

  After Dregydd left, Jill avoided looking her father in the eye.

  “And just how did you know that he was coming?”

  “I don’t know. I just did.”

  Cullyn let the subject drop. My daughter, he thought, but by the gods of our people, sometimes I wonder if I know her at all.

  As it often did, the summer fog lay thick and cold over Dun Cannobaen. From the lighthouse, the great bronze bell boomed slow notes. Inside the broch, servants scurried round lighting peat fires in the hearths. Laydy Lovyan, by now dowager of Aberwyn and, by a twist of the laws, tieryn of the area round Cannobaen in her own right, put on a cloak, made from the gray, red, and white plaid of her demesne, when she went down to the great hall. By the servants’ hearth, her warband of fifty men lounged close to the fire. At the hearth of honor knelt the suppliant come for Lovyan’s justice. The local soapmaker, Ysgerryn was a skinny fellow with gray hair who smelled faintly of tallow, for all that he’d put on a clean shirt and striped brigga for this important visit.