Daggerspell

  Thus, every gwerbret in the kingdom was a force to be reckoned with, and Galrion fussed over Madoc as if he were a prince himself, offering him the cushioned chair, pouring him mead with his own hands, and sending the page away so that they could speak privately. The object of these attentions merely smiled benignly. A solid man with a thick streak of gray in his raven-dark hair, Madoc cared more for fine horses than honors and for a good battle more than rank. That night he was in a jesting mood, pledging the prince with his goblet of mead in mock solemnity.

  “To your wedding, my prince!” Madoc said. “For a man who doesn’t say much, you’re a sly one. Fancy you nipping in and getting the most beautiful lass in the kingdom.”

  “I was rather surprised she accepted me. No one could ever call me the most beautiful lad.”

  “Oh, don’t give yourself short value. Brangwen sees beyond a lad’s face, which is more than many a lass does.” Madoc had a swallow of mead, long enough to burn an ordinary drinker’s throat. “I don’t mind saying that every man in the kingdom is going to envy you your wedding night. Or have you already claimed your rights as her betrothed?”

  “I haven’t. I had no desire to set her brother against me just for one night in her bed.”

  Although Galrion was merely speaking casually, Madoc turned troubled, watching him over the rim of his goblet.

  “Well?” Galrion went on. “How do you think Gerraent would have taken it, if I’d bedded his sister under his roof?”

  “He’s a strange lad.” Madoc looked idly away. “He’s been out there alone on the edge of that cursed forest too much, but he’s a good lad withal. I rode with him in that last rebellion against your father. By the hell ice itself, our Gerro can fight. I’ve never seen a man swing a sword as well as he does, and that’s not idle praise, my prince, but my considered judgment.”

  “Then coming from you, that’s high praise indeed.”

  Madoc nodded absently and had another sip of mead. When he spoke again, it was to change the subject to the legal doings of his gwerbretrhyn—and he kept it there.

  It was late, and Madoc long gone, when a page came with a summons from the King. Since the King scorned luxury as unfit for a fighting man, even a regal one, his large chamber was perfectly plain, with the torches in their iron sconces the only decoration on the stone walls. Near the hearth, where a small fire burned to ward off the spring chill, King Adoryc was sitting on a plain wooden chair, with Ylaena beside him on a footstool. When Galrion came in, the King stood up, setting his hands on his hips. Adoryc the Second was a massive man, broad shouldered, tall, with a bull’s neck and a perpetually ruddy face. His gray hair and thick mustache were still touched with blond.

  “So, you young cub! I’ve got somewhat to say to you.”

  “Indeed, my liege?”

  “Indeed. What by all the hells have you been doing out in the forest with that daft old man?”

  Caught off guard, Galrion could only stare at him.

  “Don’t you think I have you followed?” Adoryc went on. “You may be fool enough to ride alone, but I’m not fool enough to let you.”

  “Curse your very soul!” Galrion snapped. “Spying on me.”

  “Listen to your insolent little hound!” Adoryc glanced at Ylaena. “Cursing his own father. But answer me, lad. What have you been doing? The village folk tell my men that this Rhegor’s a daft old herbman. I can get you an apothecary if the prince has royal boils or suchlike.”

  Galrion knew that the moment had come for truth, even though he had never been less willing to tell it in his life.

  “He earns his living with his herbs, sure enough, but he’s a dweomermaster.”

  Ylaena caught her breath in an audible gasp.

  “Horsedung!” Adoryc snarled. “Do you truly think I’ll believe such babble? I want to know what you’re doing, spending so much time with him when you tell me you’re at the Falcon dun.”

  “Studying with him. Why shouldn’t a prince study the dweomer?”

  “Ah, ye gods!” Ylaena burst out. “I’ve always known you’d leave me for that!”

  Adoryc turned to stare his wife into silence.

  “Why not?” the King said. “Why not? Because I forbid it.”

  “Oh, here, you just called it horsedung. Why are you raging now?”

  Swinging too fast to be dodged, Adoryc slapped him hard across the face. When Ylaena cried out, Adoryc turned on her.

  “Get out of here, woman! Now.”

  Ylaena fled through the curtained archway that led to the women’s hall. Adoryc drew his dagger, then stabbed it into the back of a chair so hard that when he took his hand away, the dagger quivered for a moment. Galrion held his ground and stared steadily at him.

  “I want a vow out of you,” Adoryc said. “A solemn vow that you’ll never touch this nonsense again.”

  “Never could I lie to my own father. So I can’t swear it.”

  Adoryc slapped him backhanded.

  “By the names of the gods, Father! What do you hold so much against it?”

  “What any man would hold. Whose stomach wouldn’t turn at somewhat unclean?”

  “It’s not unclean. That’s a tale the priests make up to frighten women away from witchcraft.”

  The barb hit its mark. Adoryc made a visible effort to be calm.

  “I can’t give it up,” Galrion went on. “It’s too late. I know too much already for it to let me rest.”

  When Adoryc took a sharp step back, Galrion finally realized that his father was afraid, and him a man who would ride straight into a hopeless battle and take no quarter from man or god.

  “Just what do you know?” the King whispered.

  Galrion had Rhegor’s permission to display one small trick to persuade his father. He raised his hand and imagined that it was glowing with blue fire. Only when the image lived no matter where he turned his mind did he call upon the Wildfolk of Aethyr, who rushed to do his bidding and bring the blue light through to the physical plane, where it flared up and raged round his fingers. Adoryc flung himself back, his arm over his face as if to ward a blow.

  “Stop it!” Adoryc bellowed out. “I say stop it!”

  Galrion forced the fire away just as the King’s guard flung open the door and rushed into the chamber with drawn swords. Adoryc pulled himself together with a will almost as strong as his son’s.

  “You can all go.” Adoryc smiled impartially all round. “My thanks, but I’m only arguing with the stubbornest whelp in the litter.”

  The captain of the guard bowed, glancing Galrion’s way with a wink. As soon as the men were gone and the door shut, Adoryc pulled the dagger free of the chair back.

  “I’m half minded to slit your throat and put a clean end to this,” Adoryc remarked, in a casual tone of voice. “Don’t you ever do that round me again.”

  “I won’t, then, but it makes a handy thing on a dark night when you’ve dropped your torch.”

  “Hold your tongue!” Adoryc clutched the dagger tight. “To think a son of mine—and as cold as ice about it!”

  “But ye gods, Father, can’t you see? It’s too late to go back. I want to leave the court and study. There’s no other road open to me.”

  Adoryc held the dagger so that the blade caught the torchlight.

  “Get out,” Adoryc whispered. “Get out of my presence before I do a dishonorable thing.”

  Galrion turned and walked slowly toward the door. The flesh on his back prickled. Once he was safely out, Galrion allowed himself one long sigh of relief that the dagger was still in his father’s hand, not in his back.

  On the morrow, Galrion went early in search of his mother only to find her talking urgently with her serving women. To pass the time until he could speak with her, he decided to go for a walk through the parkland. As he walked down the hill to the first gate, he was thinking that it should have come as no surprise that the King would fear a prince with dweomer—Adoryc feared every possible rival to his throne. If Ga
lrion had been a schemer, there was no doubt that magic would have given him a powerful edge. At the gate, two guards stepped forward and blocked his path.

  “My humble apologies, my prince. The King’s given orders that you not be allowed to pass by.”

  “Oh, has he, now? And would you raise your hand to stop me?”

  “My apologies, my prince.” The guard licked nervous lips. “But at the King’s orders, I would.”

  Galrion stalked back to the broch, determined to have it out with his father over this insult no matter what it cost him. As he strode down the corridors, servants scattered in front of him like frightened birds. Galrion slammed into the council chamber, knocked aside a page who tried to stop him, and found the King standing by the window and talking with a dusty, travel-stained lad kneeling at his feet.

  “Well and good,” Adoryc was saying. “Tomorrow you can take back the message of condolences to Lord Gerraent. Our heart sorrows for the Falcon.”

  Only then did Galrion recognize one of the pages from the Falcon dun. Ah, ye gods, he thought, Dwen is dead! All at once, he felt his subtle plans slipping away from him, just as when a child builds a tower out of bits of wood only to see it tumble down at the first breath of wind.

  “And here is the prince,” Adoryc said. “Does your lord have any message of import for him?”

  “He does, Your Highness. My prince, Lord Gerraent has set the period of mourning until the turning of the fall. He humbly begs your understanding on this matter.”

  “He has it, truly. Come to me before you return to the Falcon. I’ll give you a message for my lady.”

  Adoryc dismissed the page in the care of another. Once they were alone, the King dropped his false civility.

  “So. You seem to know what’s going on well enough. Did your foul dweomer show you Dwen’s death?”

  “It did, but I never thought it would come so soon.”

  The King’s face first paled, then went scarlet, but Galrion got his thrust in first.

  “Why have you told the guards to keep me in?”

  “Why do you think? I’m not having you ride out of here on the sly to your cursed old hermit. Here, this evil news of Lord Dwen made me remember your betrothed. What were you planning on doing? Marrying her and taking her to a hut in the forest while you dabble about with spells?”

  “Just that, if she’ll go.”

  “You stinking dog!” Adoryc’s mouth moved, seeking insults. “You arrogant little—”

  “Oh, here, where do I get my arrogance but from you? Why shouldn’t a woman follow where her man wills to go?”

  “No reason in the world—unless she’s the noble-born daughter of a great clan.” Adoryc stepped closer. “You ugly little dolt, haven’t you thought of the insult to the Falcon? Gerraent’s uncle died for the sake of our throne, and now you dare to treat their kin this way! Do you want to drive them to rebellion?” He gave Galrion a backhanded slap. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you until you’ve gotten sense into your head.”

  Galrion stalked back to his chamber, slammed the door behind him, and flung himself down into his chair to think. There was nothing for it now but to break his betrothal—but the King would never allow that insult to the Falcon, either. I could slip away somehow, Galrion thought, climb the walls at night and be in the forest before they catch me—and break Gwennie’s heart by deserting her without even a message to explain. He had the horrible feeling that Rhegor was going to be displeased by the way he was handling things. With the period of mourning, you’ve got time, he told himself. At the thought, the dweomer-warning flared up so strongly that he shivered. For some reason that the dweomer couldn’t tell him, there was no time at all. Galrion got up and paced over to the window. When he looked down, he saw two armed guards standing at the foot of the broch directly below his window. Galrion rushed to his door and flung it open to find four more guards in the corridor. The captain managed to give him a sickly smile.

  “My apologies, my prince. The King orders that you remain in your chamber. We’re only allowed to let your page through.”

  Galrion slammed the door and returned to his chair. He wondered how long the King would make him wait before summoning him.

  Four days, it turned out, four tedious days with no company but his books and his page, who brought him food and took away the leavings silently, furtively, because servants of an out-of-favor master often met ill ends at court. Every now and then, Galrion would open the door and chat with the guards, who were friendly enough, being as their place was secure no matter what happened to the prince. Once Galrion sent a message to the Queen and begged her to come see him. The answer came back that she didn’t dare.

  Finally, on the fourth night, the guards announced that they were taking him to the King. When they marched Galrion into the royal chamber, Adoryc dismissed them. There was no sign of Ylaena.

  “Very well. Have you had enough time to think about swearing me that vow? Leave this dweomer nonsense behind, and everything will be as it was before.”

  “Father, believe me—I have no choice but to say you nay. I can’t leave the dweomer because it won’t leave me. It’s not like breaking your sword and retiring to the temple.”

  “So—you’ve got plenty of fancy words to justify disobeying the King, do you? For your mother’s sake, I’ll give you one last chance. We’ll see what Brangwen can do to talk you round.”

  “Are you going to pen me like a hog till autumn?”

  “I’m sending for her to come to court. Curse the mourning! I’m sending a speeded courier to Lord Gerraent tomorrow. My apologies will go with him, but I want them both here as fast as they can ride. I’m going to tell Lady Brangwen what her dolt of a betrothed is planning on doing, and I’ll order her to talk you round.”

  “And if she can’t?”

  “Then neither of you will ever leave the palace. Ever.”

  Galrion nearly wept. Never leave—never ride through his beloved forest again—never see the snow hanging thick on leafless branch nor a river in spate—never? And Brangwen, too, would be shut up as a prisoner for years, all for her husband’s fault. Then, only then, when it seemed too late for them both, did he realize that he truly loved her, not just her god-cursed beauty, but her.

  That night Galrion had no hope of sleep. He paced back and forth in his chambers, his mind a confused babble of dread, remorse, and futile schemes of escape. It would take a hard-riding courier three days to reach the Falcon, then another five for Brangwen and Gerraent to reach Dun Deverry. I’ll have to meet them on the road, he thought, if I can get out—out of the best-guarded fortress in the kingdom. His dweomer could never help him. He was the merest apprentice, with only an apprentice’s feeble tricks at his disposal. A little knowledge, a few wretched herbs, Galrion reproached himself. You’re no better than a woman dabbling in witchcraft! All at once, his plan came to him, and he laughed aloud. But he would need help. As much as he hated to put her at risk, he had no one to turn to but the Queen.

  In the morning, Galrion sent his page to Ylaena with the urgent message that she come see him. She sent back the answer that she would try, but it depended on the King’s whim. For three days Galrion waited, counting in his mind every mile that the King’s courier was riding, closer and closer to the Falcon keep. Finally, he sent the page with a pair of torn brigga and the request that his mother’s servants mend them. Such an errand would allay the King’s suspicions, if indeed he ever heard of anything so trivial. The ruse worked. On the next morning, the Queen herself brought the mended brigga back, slipping into his room like a servant lass.

  “Mother,” Galrion said. “Do you know the King’s plan?”

  “I do, and I weep for little Brangwen as much as you.”

  “Weep for her more, because I’m unworthy of her. Here, will you help me for her sake? All I ask is this. If I give you some clothes to mend, will you take them and have your maids leave them out in the women’s hall tonight? Tell them to put them
on the table by the door.”

  “I will.” Ylaena shuddered lightly. “I don’t dare know more.”

  After the noon meal, when the guards were bound to be bored with their light duty, Galrion opened his door for a chat. His luck was with him—they were sitting on the floor and playing dice for coppers.

  “Can I join you? If I sit on this side of the doorway, we won’t be breaking the King’s orders.”

  Obligingly the guards moved their game closer. Normally Galrion never wagered on the dice, simply because his dweomer sight would always tell him which way they would fall. Now, to get sympathy from his guards, he used the sight to place his bets so that he lost.

  “By every god and his wife,” the captain said finally. “Your luck is bad today, my prince.”

  “How could it be otherwise? It’s been against me for weeks now. If you’ve ever envied the prince, let this be a lesson for you. It’s a hard thing to fall from your own father’s favor.”

  The captain nodded in melancholy agreement.

  “I don’t mind telling you, my prince, that I think I’d go daft, shut up like you are.”

  “I’m close to it, and the nights are more wearisome than the days, because I can’t sleep. Oh, here, I know the King’s orders allow you to bring me things. Would that hold true of a woman?”

  “I don’t see why not.” The captain shared a grin with his men. “Is there one of your mother’s maids you fancy?”

  “Do you know Mae, the golden-haired lass? She’s taken a tumble with me before this.”

  “Well and good, then. We’ll do our best to smuggle her in tonight, when things are all quietlike.”

  At the dinner hour, Galrion had his page bring him a flagon of mead and two goblets. He dug down into a chest and found his packets of dried herbs. Rhegor was teaching him simple herbcraft, and he’d brought his student work home mostly as a pleasant reminder of his days in the forest. Now he had a real need for that packet of valerian, the most potent soporific in an herbman’s stock. He ground up only a spare dose. He had no desire to make Mae ill with too much, and besides, the musty, thick taste of the herb could give his whole game away.