Darkspell

  “Halt in the name of the Master of the Aethyr!”

  The tattered, oozing corpse stood stock-still. As Nevyn came in, Rhodry flung sword and shield down, dropped to his knees, and vomited, uncaring of who might see him. He heard other voices, then, as men crowded into the chamber. Comyn knelt down beside him just as he was wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Are you all right, silver dagger? By the Lord of Hell’s asshole, what was that thing?”

  “Cursed if I know, but I’ve never been more grateful for the loan of a shield in my life.”

  As he got up, he heard Nevyn chanting in a strange language. When the old man came to the end of it, the corpse buckled, its knees giving way, and settled rather than fell to the floor. Nevyn stamped thrice on the floor. Rhodry saw ugly and deformed Wildfolk dancing on the corpse for one brief moment before they vanished.

  “After this, Rhodry lad,” the dweomer-master said, “you might ask my advice before poking around in strange places.”

  “You have my sworn word on that.”

  And yet the worst horror of all still lay before him. Nevyn walked to the opening in the last chamber and pulled down the blanket to reveal a tiny, windowless room with a piece of black velvet hanging on the curved wall. On it was embroidered an upside-down five-pointed star and some other marks that Rhodry couldn’t recognize. The chamber stank of incense and a fishy sort of smell.

  Lying in the middle of the floor was the body of a stout, gray-haired man, his arms outstretched on either side. He looked like an ordinary Cerrmor man, but someone must have hated him, because he’d been stabbed in the chest over and over, so many times, truly, that he must have been long dead before the final blow fell. Although seeing the corpse meant little to Rhodry, merely looking into the room terrified him, so much so that when Nevyn walked in, he wanted to scream at the dweomerman to stay out. He forced himself to follow, but only because he was sure that Nevyn needed guarding. In the dim light it seemed that things moved, half-seen, silent. Nevyn nudged the corpse with the toe of his riding boot.

  “Well, Alastyr,” he said, “at last we meet in the flesh. You’ve been very clever, because I don’t remember ever having seen you before.” He glanced at Rhodry. “This is the man who wanted you dead, the one who stood behind Loddlaen in the war.”

  More in bewilderment than rage, Rhodry stared at his old enemy. Since he’d been picturing the dark master as a fiend in human form, he was oddly disappointed to find him so ordinary looking. Yet the room was fiendish enough. His irrational terror grew until Nevyn laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “This danger’s long over,” the dweomerman said. “It’s the touch of elven blood in your veins that makes you so sensitive.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. This is the chamber where Alastyr worked his foul perversions of the dweomer, you see. Ah, ye gods, poor Camdel!”

  “What did they do, make him watch?”

  “Watch? Hah! They used him for their rituals. He was repeatedly raped in here.”

  “Oh, pigs cock! How can you rape a man?”

  “Don’t pretend to a naïveté that a court-raised man doesn’t have. You know cursed well what I mean. They cut him when they were doing it, too, to spill blood for their twisted spirits.”

  If Rhodry had had anything left to heave, he would have vomited again. Nevyn was watching him.

  “Blaen and I are minded to tell the king that Camdel’s dead,” the old man said. “Will your honor allow you to keep our secret?”

  Rhodry glanced around the chamber and wondered how it would look to a man thrown down on the floor.

  “Maybe Camdel was a thief,” he said at last, “but I for one don’t have one word more to say about that.”

  It took Nevyn and Blaen both to get Camdel mounted on a horse they found in the stables, because the young lord was much less than fully conscious. Even with their help, he swayed so alarmingly in the saddle that Nevyn ended up tying him to it. Later Nevyn would remove the ensorcellment—much later, once he’d found another dweomer-worker to start the long process of healing Camdel’s mind.

  “Now, here, good sorcerer,” Blaen said. “Are you sure you’re going to be safe out here alone?”

  “Quite sure. The work I have to do won’t take that long. I should return to the dun in time for the noon meal.”

  “No doubt you know your own affairs best, then, and I don’t care to know what they are.”

  As the warband mounted up, Nevyn had a chance to say a few words to Jill, who was yawning in the saddle.

  “Camdel will sleep for some hours when you get back. Can I ask you to go sit with him when he wakes?”

  “I will, truly. We don’t want him to be all alone, in case he remembers somewhat of what he’s been through.”

  Nevyn’s heart ached. If only the little dolt could see it, he thought, she’d make such a splendid healer! Yet never could he force her Wyrd upon her, and he knew it. Until the warband was well out of sight, he waited, yawning some himself in the warm morning sun. Even his unnatural vitality had its limits. Somewhat wryly he reflected that tonight he’d have his first full night’s sleep in fifty-odd years.

  Blaen’s men had already buried Alastyr and what was left of the farmer’s corpse up in the hills. Nevyn went to the ritual chamber, tore down the piece of velvet, then threw it into the hearth for the Wildfolk of Fire to dispose of. While it smoked and crackled, he rummaged round and found the farmer’s store of salt in a little crock and a couple of thin splints of wood of the sort used for transferring fire from a hearth to a candle. Since he had no incense, plain smoke would have to do.

  When he returned to the chamber, the atmosphere already seemed a bit lighter, just from having that blasphemous symbol down from the wall. Although he wanted to do the banishings immediately, the chamber had secrets to tell him that would be lost once he did the working. He sat down cross-legged in front of a brown stain of Alastyr’s blood, laid the salt and splints aside, then slowed his breathing until his mind was perfectly focused. He built an image of a six-pointed star until it glowed as two interlaced triangles, one red, one blue. Slowly he pushed the image out of his mind until it seemed to stand in front of him.

  In the center hexagon he visualized Alastyr’s corpse as he’d first seen it at dawn, then sent his mind backward in time, at first only imagining the room as it would have looked by candlelight. Since the murder was so recent, true vision replaced his imagination in a few seconds. He saw the blond apprentice kneeling on guard at his master’s head. His mouth was twisted into a small, terrifying smile as Alastyr twitched and writhed in his trance; then his hand went to his belt and drew his dagger. For a while he paused, as if savoring the moment, then plunged the dagger into the helpless man’s heart, over and over. Since he didn’t care to watch the blows, Nevyn broke the vision and withdrew the star into himself.

  “So that was my unexpected help, was it? And he must be the one who took Alastyr’s books and other ritual objects, too. Well, assuming that he had any with him.”

  The Wildfolk crouched in the corners all nodded to indicate that, indeed, Alastyr had traveled with all the usual impediment of a dark master. They were a pitiful lot of spirits, all twisted and deformed by Alastyr’s meddling.

  “And yet he left the cloth behind. Was he in a hurry because we were coming?’

  Again they told him yes.

  “Is that why he didn’t kill Camdel?”

  They shook their heads no. One black gnome with protruding fangs lay down on the floor and pretended to cower in fear, while another stood over him, clawed hand raised as if it held a knife. Then it pantomimed kneeling down, sheathing the knife, and patted the other gnome gently on the shoulder.

  “By the hells! Do you mean he pitied Camdel?”

  They nodded a solemn yes.

  “Now, I never would have thought that! Huh. Well, my friends, it’s no affair of yours. Soon you’ll be free of those ugly shapes. Help me perform the banishings, and
then you can go to your kings.”

  When they leaped up, he felt their joy washing over him as tangibly as water.

  “Is he awake?” Rhodry said.

  “Sort of.” Jill sounded doubtful. “It’s hard to tell.”

  Rhodry walked into the chamber and forced himself to look at Camdel, who lay on top of the bed with his shirt off. He was filthy, bruised, and sliced here and there with thin lines of scabs. At last he opened his eyes and looked up warily, as if he expected Rhodry to give him a few more scars.

  “Do you want somewhat to eat?” Jill said.

  “I don’t,” Camdel whispered. “Water?”

  All the time that Jill was filling a cup from a pitcher, Camdel stared at Rhodry in wide-eyed fear.

  “Oh, here, don’t you remember me from court? Rhodry Maelwaedd, Aberwyn’s younger son.”

  At that a faint smile flicked on his mouth, and he sat up to take the cup of water. Holding it in both hands, he sipped it slowly while looking around the chamber. The late-afternoon sun slanted in the windows and picked out the dust motes dancing in the golden shafts. As pleased as a child, Camdel smiled at the sight. Rhodry felt his revulsion rise and looked away. What if the dark masters had gotten hold of his Jill? Would they have done something similar to her? In his heart he made a solemn vow that if ever it was in his power to rid the world of any dark dweomermen, he would risk death, if he had to, to stamp them out.

  “Rhoddo, would you call a page?” Jill said. “I want them to fetch up water so he can have a bath”

  “A bath?” Camdel sounded drunk. “I’d like that.”

  Rhodry left the chamber gratefully. Although he didn’t blame Camdel for a thing, he couldn’t bear the sight of him.

  After he sent the pages on their errand, Rhodry joined Blaen at the honor table. Blaen was, of course, drinking mead, and for the first time in his life Rhodry decided to try to keep up with him. While his cousin watched with a small smile, he gulped down as much as he could in one swallow.

  “Does a man good,” Blaen remarked. “Wipes things away.”

  “It does, at that. Did you hear what—”

  “—happened to Camdel? I did.”

  Rhodry had another swallow of mead. Neither of them spoke again for hours.

  In the foothills on the western side of Cwm Pecl, Sarcyn led his weary horse along a narrow track through stands of pine trees. He’d fled west blindly, seeking some isolated spot where he could hide for a day or two, but now it occurred to him that he’d better keep moving. Both the gwerbret’s men and, worse yet, the Master of the Aethyr would be hunting him down. Yet in his weariness he wondered if it might not be better to let the gwerbret hang him than to fall into the hands of the Dark Brotherhood. They would make his death last for weeks.

  “But I have the books,” he whispered aloud. “Someday I’ll have the power to stand against them.”

  Near sunset he found a valley with a stream and plenty of grass for his horse. He made camp, then scrounged some deadwood from the forested hillside and lit a small fire with his flint and steel. Although his stomach was growling, he ignored his hunger. He’d already eaten a meal that day, and he needed to eke out his meager store of provisions. For a while he stared into the fire and brooded over his plans. Scattered around the kingdom were a number of people who might shelter him for a few days at least. A few days were all he could afford to spend in one place, no matter how much he needed time to study Alastyr’s books. All at once he was too weary to think—remarkably weary and muddled, as he would realize later.

  Like a child, he curled up on his blankets and fell asleep by the fire. When he woke, it was suddenly—at the touch of hands on his arms. He cried out, then struggled, kicking and writhing, but a leather cord slipped round his wrists and pulled tight, and a man fell across his knees and pinned him. By the light of the dying fire he could see his assailants, two light-skinned Bardek men in Deverry clothes. One lashed his wrists tight; the other, his ankles, even as he threw his weight this way and that. At last they were done, and he lay panting on the ground while they stood over him.

  “So, little one,” said the taller. “You’ve slain your master, have you?”

  Sarcyn went rigid with terror, a coldness that started at the base of his spine and rippled upward.

  “I see you know who we are,” the assassin went on. “The Hawks of the Brotherhood have you, sure enough. The Old One sent us to follow Alastyr and keep an eye on him. We’ve been scrying you out all along, little one, but never did we think to see a murder.”

  “I’ll wager the Old One suspected somewhat of the sort,” said the second. “He never tells a man all his thoughts.”

  “It may be, at that.” He kicked Sarcyn hard on the side of the head. “But you’ll pay, little one, and slowly, after you’ve told the masters everything you know. We’ve lost one of our own men because of the opal, you know. You’ll pay for that as well.”

  Although the world danced like fire from the blow, Sarcyn bit his lip hard and kept from crying out. Even though fear was making him tremble, he swore himself a solemn vow: he would tell them nothing at all, no matter how cleverly they tortured him, because he would get no mercy from them even if he obeyed them. As the Hawks went to get their horses, hidden somewhere in the trees, he shrank into himself and clung to his will. It was all he had left, his ability to concentrate his will and drive himself with it. He forced the fear away, stopped trembling, and lay as limply as a netted deer while he stared into the fire.

  Although Nevyn returned round noon, Jill had no chance to talk with him until sunset, because the dweomerman worked on Camdel all afternoon, washing and treating his various wounds as well as soothing his mind. After dinner he sent a page to fetch her to his chamber, where the last blaze of light poured in the window. Jill sat down on a chest while he paced restlessly back and forth.

  “How’s Camdel?” she asked.

  “Sound asleep, the gods be thanked. I had him tell me some of what’s happened to him, but I made sure he won’t remember doing so. He’s too weak to face his memories just now.”

  “No doubt. Why did they—well, use him like that?”

  He cocked his head to one side and considered her in an oddly sly way.

  “By rights, I shouldn’t tell you,” he said at last. “Besides, I thought all this talk of dweomer ached your heart.”

  “Oh, Nevyn, don’t tease!”

  “Very well, then. Well, when two people bed down together, a certain amount of a substance called magnetic effluent is given off. I know you don’t know what that is, and I’m not going to explain it further to someone without more knowledge, so take what I say on faith. This effluent has many a peculiar property, but it’s basically a kind of life stuff. It’s also present in blood. Now, the dark dweomermen are trained in ways of sucking up the effluent if it’s present and using it to restore their own vitality. When his apprentice was using Camdel, Alastyr was basically feeding off their lust.”

  Jill felt sick to her stomach.

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” Nevyn remarked. “Now, here, though—that reminds me of somewhat. The apprentice—Sarcyn his name is, or so Camdel told me—did escape. You and Rhodry are going to have to be very careful when you ride out.”

  “I’ve been brooding over that all day, truly.”

  “I’m planning on hunting him down, or I’d insist that you two stay with Blaen, no matter how shamed it makes Rhodry feel. As it is, he’s fairly weak, and he has worse enemies than me.”

  “Who?”

  “Remember the man who poisoned himself in Ogwern’s chambers?”

  “Oh, ye gods! Didn’t you say that there were more like him?”

  “I did, and thanks be to every god, I expect they’ll be too busy with this Sarcyn fellow to worry about revenging themselves on you. Still, stay on guard. Sarcyn’s got a head start on me, and of course, I can’t scry him out. I’ve never laid eyes on him in the flesh.”

  As soon as Jill had her idea, i
t seemed obvious, except that she had no idea of how she knew what she did. She sat very still, thinking it over, feeling her fear grow, not only a fear of Sarcyn, but of deliberately and coldly using the dweomer. If she voiced her idea, she knew she would be taking the first step on a very strange road. Or was it truly only the first step? Somewhat puzzled, Nevyn watched her until, at last, she made her decision.

  “I’ve seen him in the flesh,” she said. “You can scry through me, can’t you? I don’t know why I’m so sure of this, but can’t you use me like a pair of eyes?”

  “By all the hells! You’re right enough, but are you sure you’d let me? It means my taking over your will.”

  “Of course I’d let you. You should know that I’d trust you with my life.”

  Nevyn came close to weeping. Hastily he turned away and wiped his eyes on his dirty sleeve while she wondered at it, that her good opinion would mean so much to a man of his powers.

  “Well, my thanks,” he said at last. “Let me just get some wood from a servant, and we’ll build a fire.”

  By the time the fire was burning steadily, the twilight was deepening to a velvet dark. Nevyn had Jill sit in a chair in front of the fire while he stood behind her. Although she was frightened, with the fear came the same kind of exultation she felt just before a battle. When he laid his hands on the back of her neck, just where the spine meets the skull, at first his fingers seemed normally warm; then the warmth increased and seemed to flow into her very veins, to spread along them through her face and mind, until at last it centered itself between her eyes as a peculiar twisting sensation.

  “Look into the fire, child, and think of Sarcyn.”

  As soon as she did, she saw him, lying asleep by a campfire, somewhere in hilly country. The image was small at first; then it swelled to fill first the hearth, then her whole mind, until she hovered above the scene the way she did in a true dream. As she floated over the valley, she saw two men leave the trees up the hill and begin to stalk the unsuspecting sleeper. Slowly they moved, and quietly, gliding along low to the ground like ferrets. Even though she’d hated Sarcyn not a minute before, she was suddenly terrified for him.