A Time of Omens

  Then came the waiting. Far away, hundreds of miles away in the High King’s city of Dun Deverry, the head priest would light the first fire. The instant that the nearest priests on their hilltops saw the blaze, they would torch their own wood. Those next away would see and kindle theirs—on and on it would go, thin lines of light springing up and spreading out across the kingdom in a dweomer web, until beacon fires burned from the sea coast up to Cerrgonney and all across from Cwm Peel to here on the Pyrdon border. The younger priest raised a brass horn, long and straight in the ancient style, to his lips and stared off to the east. The villagers huddled close together in the gathering dark. All at once the priest tipped his head back and blew, a rasping, shrieking cry straight from the heart of the Dawntime. Down went the torches. The fire blazed up, crackling with oil, a great leap of gold flame lurching in the night wind. When Rhodry spun around, searching the horizon, he saw the neighboring fires like little stars, resting on the hilltops.

  The village cried out, praying wordlessly to the gods to keep them safe through the night ahead. Silhouetted by the dancing bonfire, the priests flung their arms over their heads and began to chant. Rhodry found himself remembering Oldana, and the other fire that had bloomed by the Lake of the Leaping Trout. Doubtless Aderyn’s alar had burned the old man’s body, too, out on the grasslands where he’d died. For a moment Rhodry felt so odd that he wondered if he’d been taken ill; then he realized that he was crying, aloud and helpless like a child, beyond all power to stop himself. Fortunately, in the chanting, yelling mob no one noticed.

  When the chanting died away, the horn shrieked again, over and over, sending the villagers on their way. The children ran for home, the adults walked fast—but not too fast, because it didn’t pay to let the spirits know you were afraid of them. Rhodry trailed after the innkeep’s family and managed to have his face wiped and respectable by the time they reached the inn. Merro set a couple of bowls of milk and bread out on the doorstep to keep the spirits happy, then ushered everyone inside and barred the door with a profound sigh of relief. While his wife poured ale for the grown-ups, Merro lit the new fire laid ready in the hearth.

  “Well, there,” he said. “May the gods keep us safe in the coming snows, too.”

  With a murmured excuse, the wife set the tankards down and left the tavern room, taking the young boy with her. The two older girls crouched down by the fire and stared into the flames, trying to see the faces of the men they’d someday marry. Rhodry and Merro sat at a table and drank in silence. Outside the wind picked up, rustling the thatch on the roof, banging the shutters at the windows. Even though Rhodry kept telling himself that it was only the wind, he heard the dead walking.

  Merro was just remarking that he might pour a second round when they heard hoofbeats clattering up to the inn. It could only be a horse from the Otherlands. Merro turned dead-pale, staring at the door while the wind whispered and rattled. Someone—something—knocked so loudly that the two girls shrieked. Rhodry sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword hilt, as the knocking came again.

  “Innkeep!” The voice sounded human enough, male and deep at that. “Open up, for the love of the gods!”

  Merro sat frozen, his face dead-white.

  “It’s going to rain!” the voice went on. “Have pity on a traveler, even though he was a dolt, sure enough, to let himself get caught on the roads for Samaen eve.”

  Merro made a rattling sound deep in his throat.

  “Ah, by the black ass of the Lord of Hell!” Rhodry said, and he could feel himself grinning. “Let’s let him in, innkeep. If naught else, it’ll be a fine tale to tell, about the spirit who was afraid to get wet.”

  The lasses shrieked again, but halfheartedly, as if they were only doing it to keep up appearances. Rhodry strode over and unbarred the door. The man that stood there in the shadows seemed human enough: tall, broad-shouldered, a little beefy, in fact, with windblown blond hair, but in the uncertain light Rhodry couldn’t see his eyes to tell if they were demonic or not. He was holding the reins of a normal-looking horse, too, standing head down and weary, a gray as far as Rhodry could see. Up in the sky the clouds hung black. A few drops of rain spattered, then stopped.

  “What do you think, Merro?” Rhodry called out. “He looks like flesh and blood to me.”

  “Oh, well and good, then.” With a sigh the innkeep came over. “But by every god in the sky, traveler, you gave me a fright! Now let’s get that poor beast some hay.”

  By the time that Merro and the stranger got back to the tavern room, the rain was pouring down. Rhodry helped himself to more ale, then put one foot up on a bench and leaned onto his knee to watch as the stranger stripped off his wet cloak and shook his head with a scatter of drops. You never knew about men you met on the long road, though in truth this lad seemed decent enough. In the leaping light he looked young, twenty at the most, and his blue eyes were perfectly human, neither cat-slit like an elf’s nor blank and empty as those of demons are reputed to be. He accepted a tankard from the innkeep, started to speak, then leaned across the table. His eyes were narrowing in puzzlement even as he smiled, suddenly pleased, suddenly grinning, in fact, in something close to joy.

  “Don’t I know you, silver dagger?”

  “Not that I recall.” Yet even as he spoke Rhodry felt his heart twist.

  He did know this lad, didn’t he? It seemed that the name hovered on the edge of his mind, just out of reach yet as familiar as his own, and on that same edge an image was trying to rise, a memory trying to bloom like a flower.

  “Where are you from?” the lad said.

  “Down Eldidd way. You’re from Deverry proper, by the sound of your speech.”

  “I am, and never been west till this summer. But it’s odd, I could have sworn…” He let his voice trail away.

  Rhodry hadn’t been in Deverry for close to twenty years, when this fellow would have been a babe in arms.

  “And who was your father, then?”

  “Now that I can’t tell you.” The lad hesitated, drawing into himself, turning his face expressionless. “And as for my name, you can call me Yraen.”

  “Well and good, Yraen it is. My name is Rhodry, and that’s all the name I have.”

  “It’s enough for a silver dagger, huh?” Yraen hesitated, cocking his head to one side, looking Rhodry over. “You are a silver dagger, aren’t you? I mean, I just assumed …”

  “I am.” Rhodry drew the dagger and flipped it point down and quivering into the table between them. “What’s it to you?”

  “Naught, naught. Just asking.”

  Yraen stared at the device graved on the blade, a striking falcon, for a long time.

  “Mean anything to you?” Rhodry said.

  “Not truly, but it’s splendid, the way it’s drawn. You’d swear that bird could fly, wouldn’t you?”

  Rhodry remembered the innkeep, looked up to find Merro shepherding his daughters through the door into the family’s rooms.

  “I’ll just leave you two lads,” Merro announced. “Bank the fire before you go to sleep, won’t you, silver dagger? Dip yourself more ale if you want it.”

  “I will, and my thanks, innkeep.”

  He got himself more ale and came back to the table to find Yraen holding the dagger, angling the blade to catch the firelight. Yraen caught his expression and hurriedly put the dagger down.

  “Apologies. I shouldn’t have touched it without asking you first.”

  “You’re forgiven. Don’t do it again.”

  Yraen blushed as red as a Bardek roof tile, making Rhodry wonder if he were closer to eighteen than twenty.

  “You look like you’ve been on the long road for years,” the lad said finally.

  “I have. What’s it to you?”

  “Naught. I mean. Well, you see, I’ve been hoping to find a silver dagger. Think your band would take me on?”

  “Oho. You’ve got a reason to be traveling the kingdom, have you?”

  Yraen stared
down at the table, began rubbing the palm of one hand back and forth along the edge of the grease-polished wood.

  “You don’t have to tell me what got you dishonored,” Rhodry said. “None of my wretched business, truly, as long as you can fight and keep your word.”

  “Oh, I can fight well enough. I got my training… well, uh, in a great lord’s household, you see. But…”

  Rhodry waited, sipping his ale. He could tell that Yraen was hovering on the edge of some much-needed confession. All at once the lad looked up.

  “They say that every silver dagger’s got some great shame in his past.”

  “True enough. Not our place to judge another man.”

  “But, you see, I haven’t done anything. I just want to be a silver dagger. I always have, from the day I heard about them. I don’t know why. I don’t want to sit moldering in my, uh, er, my lord’s dun down in Deverry. I’ve talked to every silver dagger who rode our way, and I know in my very soul that I was meant to ride the long road.”

  “You must be daft!”

  “That’s what everyone says.” All at once he grinned. “And so, think I, well, maybe being daft is dishonor enough.”

  “Not likely. Listen, once you take this blasted dagger, you’re marked for life. You’re a shamed man, and you only deepen your shame every time you take coin from a lord for fighting his battles instead of serving him out of fealty. Ye gods, why do you want to throw your young life away? Can’t you see that—”

  “I know my own mind.” There was a growl in his voice. “That’s what they all say, you know. You’ll only regret it when it’s too late, and you’ve dishonored yourself in the eyes of the entire kingdom, and no one will take you in, then, because you’ll just be a cursed silver dagger. Well, I don’t care.” He stiffened, half rising from his seat. “You asked me if I could keep my word. Well, I could have made up some lie, said I caused trouble in the warband or suchlike, but I didn’t. I told you the truth, and now you’re mocking me for it.”

  “I’m not mocking you, lad. Believe me, that’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

  Yraen sat back down. Rhodry considered the empty bottom of his tankard and felt himself yawning. The events of the day, of the past few weeks, truly, all seemed to rush in upon him. He was tired, and he’d drunk more than a fair bit—those were the reasons, he supposed, that his mind kept circling round the peculiar idea. Against his will he found himself remembering the evil spirit, nattering about times when he’d worn another face and another name. And things Aderyn had said, years ago. And a strange woman of the Wildfolk, who had known him when he should never have recognized her—though he did. And Evandar, saying that he’d owned the rose ring long before the Guardian had put runes upon it, when Rhodry had never seen the thing without its inscription. And then Yraen, this familiar stranger. When a man’s dead, he’s gone, he told himself. The doors to the Otherlands only swing one way. All at once he realized that Yraen was still talking.

  “Were you listening to me?” Yraen snapped.

  “I wasn’t, at that. What were you saying?”

  Faced with his direct stare the lad blushed again.

  “You’re noble-born, aren’t you?” Rhodry said.

  “How did you know?”

  Yraen looked so honestly surprised that Rhodry nearly laughed aloud, but he caught himself in time.

  “Go back to your father’s dun, lad. Don’t throw your life away for the silver dagger. Now look, if you rode here from Deverry, you must have met other silver daggers along the way. None of them would pledge you to the band, either, would they?”

  Yraen scowled and went back to rubbing his hand on the edge of the table.

  “I thought not,” Rhodry said. “We have a bit of honor left, most of us, anyway.”

  “But I want it!” He hesitated, reining in his temper. “What if I beg you, Rhodry? Please, will you take me on? Please?”

  It cost him dear to humble himself that way, and for a moment Rhodry wavered.

  “I won’t,” he said at last. “Because it would be a rotten thing to do to a man who’s never wronged me.”

  Yraen tossed his head and muttered something foul.

  “There’s naught out to the west of us, so there’s no use in you riding that way,” Rhodry went on. “On the morrow you’d best head back east to your father. Winter’s coming on fast.”

  As if to underscore his point, a blast of wind hit the tavern. Thatch rustled, shutters breathed and banged, the fire smoked. Rhodry started to get up, but Yraen forestalled him, swinging himself clear of the bench and hurrying to the fire.

  “I’ll tend it,” he said. “I’ll make you a bargain. I’ll be your page, and we’ll travel together for a while. I’ll wait on you like I waited on the lord who trained me, when I was a page in his dun, I mean, and then you can see if I’m good enough to carry the dagger.”

  “You young dolt, it’s not a question of you proving yourself.”

  Yraen ignored him and began to mess about with the fire. Sparks scattered, logs dropped and smothered coals, sticks of glowing charcoal rolled into corners to die.

  “I think you’d best let me do that.”;

  “Well, maybe so. My apologies, but the servants always did the fires at home, not the pages.”

  “No doubt.”

  “But is this your bedroll? I’ll spread it out for you.”

  Before Rhodry could stop him, he did just that, in the best spot nearest the fire in the cleanest straw, and he insisted on straightening out all of Rhodry’s gear, getting his razor out ready for the morning. He would have pulled Rhodry’s boots off for him, too, if Rhodry hadn’t snarled at him. Whoever had trained him as a boy had taught him a few things, at least, about waiting on a lord on campaign.

  Rhodry woke early the next morning. Since the tavern room was cold, and the innkeep and his family not yet up, he lay awake thinking, watching the cracks round the shutters turn gray with dawn and listening to Yraen snore by the other side of the fire. A lad who actually wanted to be a silver dagger! A lad whom, he was sure, he remembered. From somewhere. From some time. From some other… his mind shied away from the idea like a horse from a snake in the road. Someone he had known, a long, long time ago and then again, not so long ago at all.

  With a shake of his head Rhodry got up, moving as quietly as he could, pulled on his boots and grabbed his cloak, then slipped outside to use the privy round by the stables. As he was coming back, he lingered for a while in the inn yard. It had stopped raining, though the sky still hung close and gray, and he leaned onto the low wooden fence and looked idly down the north-running road, leading toward Dun Drw. The rhan’s chief city, it was, the capital of the gwerbrets who once had been kings. We remember the old days, here in Pyrdon, or so Merro had said. Maybe, Rhodry told himself, just maybe I do, too. Then he shook the thought away and hurried inside.

  Back in the tavern he found Yraen up and busy. The fire was burning again, the lumps of sod neatly stacked to one side of the hearth; both bedrolls were lashed up and laid ready with the other gear by the door; Yraen himself was badgering the yawning innkeep about heating water for shaving. In the morning light Rhodry could see that the lad did indeed need to shave and revised his estimate of Yraen’s age upward again.

  “Morrow, my lord,” Yraen said. “There’s naught for breakfast, our innkeep tells me, but bread and dried apples.”

  “It’ll do, and don’t call me your lord.”

  Yraen merely grinned. Over breakfast Rhodry tried arguing with him, snarling at him, and downright ordering him to go home, but when they rode out, Yraen rode alongside him. The lad had a beautiful horse, a dapple-gray gelding standing close to seventeen hands, with a delicate head but a barrel chest. When Rhodry glanced at its flank, he found the king’s own brand.

  “A gift to my father from his highness,” Yraen said. “And my father gave him to me.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that you left with your father’s blessing, do you?”


  “I don’t. I snuck out in the night like a thief, and that’s the one thing that troubles my heart. But I’m one of four brothers, so he’s got plenty of heirs.”

  “I see, and you had no prospects at home, anyway.”

  “None to speak of.” Yraen flashed him a sour sort of grin. “Unless you count riding in a brother’s warband as a prospect in life.”

  Since Rhodry had once been in the same position, he could sympathize, though not to the point of weakening.

  “It’s a better prospect than you’ll have on the long road. At least if you die riding for your brother, someone will give you a proper grave. A muddy ditch on the battlefield’s the best a silver dagger can hope for.”

  Yraen merely shrugged. Whether eighteen or twenty, Rhodry supposed, he was too young to believe that he would ever die.

  “Now look, I’m not going to stand you to the dagger and that’s that. You’re wasting your time and your breath, following me and begging.”

  Yraen smiled and said nothing.

  “Ye gods, you stubborn young cub!”

  “Rhodry, please.” Yraen turned in the saddle so that he could see his unwilling mentor’s face. “I’ll tell you somewhat that I’ve never told anyone before. Will you listen?”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “When I was about fourteen, just home from serving as a page, my mother gave a fete. And one of her serving women has the second sight, I mean, everyone says she does, and she’s usually right if she outright predicts something. So she dressed up like an old hag and did fortunes, looking into a silver bowl of water by candlelight. Mostly she talked about marriages and silly things like that, you see, but when she came to do mine, she cried out and wouldn’t say anything at all Mother made me leave, so the fete wouldn’t be spoiled or suchlike, but later I made the woman tell me what she’d seen. And she said she saw me riding as a silver dagger, somewhere far, far away in a wild part of the kingdom, and that when she saw it, she just somehow knew that it was my Wyrd, sent by the gods. And then she started crying, and I had to believe her.”