A Time of Exile (13 page)

“No one will ever enslave an elf,” Dallandra broke in. “We’d die first, every last one of us.”

“Hush, child!” Nananna paused, thinking. “Tell me, Aderyn. What sent you to us?”

“Just this spring I left my master and received my vision. In it I saw a river, far to the west. When Halaberiel brought me to you, I crossed that river.”

“And do you want to go back across it to your own kind? I can have the banadar escort you.”

“Wise One, there are some rivers that can never be recrossed.”

The old woman smiled, nodding her agreement. Aderyn felt cold with excitement, a sweet troublement. He could hear the distant singing, drifting in from the night with the wailing of flutes.

“If you asked for me, and if I’ve been sent to you,” Aderyn said, “what work do you want me to do?”

“I’m not truly sure yet, but I do want Dallandra to have a man of your people at her side who understands your ways as she understands ours. I see blood on the grasslands, and I hear swords and shouting. It would be a shameful thing if I didn’t even try to stop it. Will you ride with us for a while?”

“Gladly. How can I stand by and let my folk do a murdering thing to haunt their Wyrd forever?”

“Nicely spoken. Tell me, Dalla—can you work with this man?”

Dallandra turned her storm-cloud gaze Aderyn’s way and considered him for so long that his heart began pounding.

“Well,” she said at last, “I’d work with the Dark Fiends themselves if it would help my people. He’ll do.”

“Well and good, then, as your folk would say.” Nananna raised a frail hand in blessing. “Ride south with us, young Aderyn, and we’ll see what all our gods have in store.”

T
he cold autumn rains slashed down over the town of Cernmeton and sent water sheeting across the cobbles and pooling in the gutters. Wrapped in his heavy winter cloak of dark blue wool, Cinvan rode fast through the twisting streets and left it up to the few townsfolk abroad to get out of his horse’s way. He clattered through the gates of the tieryn’s dun, a walled compound centered round a stone broch, rode round to the back stables, and yelled for a groom. A stable boy came running.

“So you’re back, are you? How was your visit home?”

“As good as it needed to be. Did I miss any excitement?”

“You didn’t, unless you count getting drunk in our lord’s hall as excitement.” He sighed in a melancholy way. “We’ve got a tournament going on Carnoic. So far Edyl’s ahead by six games.”

“I’ll see if I can give him a run for his coin, then.”

In the great hall smoke from the two huge hearths drifted in blue wisps across the round room. On one side
the warband of thirty-five men was sitting and drinking at their tables. Up by the honor hearth, Tieryn Melaudd was slouched in his carved chair and drinking with his two sons, Waldyn and Dovyn. The tieryn was a florid-faced, raven-haired man, heavy with middle age but still capable of swinging steel. Of the sons, Waldyn, the elder, had the blond hair he’d inherited from his Deverry mother, but the younger looked much like a slender version of his father. Everyone knew that Dovyn was his father’s favorite son, too—a pity, since under the new laws he could never inherit a share of the demesne. Cinvan knelt before the tieryn, who gave him leave to speak with a wave of his hand.

“I’ve returned to your service as I pledged you, my lord. A thousand humble thanks for giving me leave.”

“Welcome, lad. And how fares your kin?”

“They’re doing well, my lord.” Cinvan was lying, but he saw no need to burden the tieryn with a problem he could do nothing about.

“Good, good. Get yourself some ale and join your comrades.”

Cinvan rose, bowed, and made his escape from the awesome presence of the noble-born. He dipped himself a tankard of ale from the open barrel in the curve of the wall, then strolled over to join the warband. Most of the men were watching Edyl and Peddyc play Carnoic, a board game where the players moved black or white stones along a pattern of triangles in attempts to capture each other’s men. Every move the two of them made was slow, studied, and accompanied by either cheers or oaths from the rest of the warband. As Cinvan stood watching them, Garedd came over and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“So our falcon’s flown back to the nest, has he? Pity—I was hoping you’d drown on the road.”

Cinvan threw a mock punch his way.

“Bastard! Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Naught. And how was Elrydd?”

“As well as it needed to be.”

Garedd shot him a look of honest sympathy. They took their tankards and sat down at a table far from the crowd around the game.

“And your sister?” Garedd said.

“That’s the cursed worst thing of all. By the hells, I was
minded to beat her black and blue. First she has to go and get herself a bastard, and now she’s given it up.”

“She what?”

“Gave the babe up. To her rotten cat-eyed man. He rides in and wants the little lass—because she’ll only be a burden on our Dewigga, or so he says, and so she up and lets him take her away.” Cinvan slammed the tankard down on the table. “And Da was too cursed drunk to know or care. Ah, horseshit!”

“Now here, maybe it’s for the best. Your sister’s got a chance at a decent marriage someday now.”

“Ah, that’s what she said, blast her! But the shame of it, my own niece, one of my blood kin, riding with the Westfolk! What’s her da going to do, I says to Dewigga, teach her to steal? And she’s got the gall to slap me across the face and tell me to hold my tongue! Women!”

Garedd nodded in silent sympathy. Cinvan drew his dagger and began fiddling with it, just for comfort. On the hilt was graved his personal mark, the striking falcon that had earned him his nickname in the warband. He ran a heavily callused thumb over the mark and had thoughts of slitting this Gaverenteriel’s throat for him one sweet day.

“And you know what else Dewigga had the gall to say? She’s always known her man was going to take the babe when she was old enough. ‘You’re cursed lucky you didn’t let me know,’ says I. ‘Why do you think I held my tongue?’ says she. ‘Cursed good thing,’ says I, and she slaps me again.”

“Why didn’t you beat her black and blue?” Garedd said.

Cinvan shrugged, laying the dagger down on the table and picking up his tankard. The truth was too bitter to tell: he’d seen too much of that already, with his father beating his mother half to death every time she looked at the old man wrong. Her sobs still echoed through his dreams.

“Ah, wouldn’t be worth the trouble,” Cinvan said. “I just tell her that if she has another bastard, don’t come running to me for coin for the midwife this time, and she flounces out of the room like a highborn lady with her nose in the air.”

“Good for you. Women need to be kept in their place.”

“Cursed right.”

They finished their ale in silence. At the far table, Edyl’s
howl of rage—he always was a rotten loser—announced that Peddyc had won the game. Amid laughter and jests, coin changed hands all around the warband.

“And here’s our falcon back,” Ynryc called out, pocketing a silver piece from the defeated side. “Come on, Cinvan—give Peddyc here a game. You’ve got a good hand with the stones.”

“Maybe I will, if he’ll take me on.”

“Oh, I’m always game,” Peddyc said, grinning. “Let’s see if I can keep my winnings.”

Edyl rose from his place at the board.

“Welcome back, falcon. And has your sister given you a nephew yet? But with proper ears this time?”

The world went red. Cinvan stepped forward, hit Edyl hard in the stomach with his right, and swung up to clip his jaw with his left. Edyl went down like a sack of grain as the hall exploded in shouting. Cinvan felt men grabbing his arms, heard Garedd yelling at him to calm down. Abruptly the red fog cleared. Cinvan knelt to his lord in a cold, shaking sweat.

“And what’s all this? By the hells, you haven’t been back for one wretched hour, Cinvan.”

Cinvan nodded in dumb agreement. He was so sure that he was in for a flogging that he could already feel the whip on his back. Young Dovyn caught his father’s arm and whispered something to him.

“Oh.” Melaudd turned to Peddyc. “Did Edyl make remarks about Cinvan’s sister?”

“He did, my lord.”

“Well, then, he’s gotten what he deserved. Tell him I said so when you bring him round. But here, Cinvan, try to keep peace in my hall, will you? If you’d only ignore these stupid foul jests, they’d stop making them after a while.”

“True-spoken, my lord, and my apologies.”

Later that day, when Melaudd and Waldyn’s wives and their serving women came down from the women’s hall to sit with the noble lords at the table of honor, Dovyn came to drink with his father’s warband. Cinvan wondered if he felt more at home with the men now that his brother had an infant son, another heir between him and Cernmeton.

“Good to see you back, falcon.”

“My thanks, my lord. For a lot of things.”

“Most welcome, truly. I’ve got somewhat to ask you. I’ll be riding down to Aberwyn soon. My father’s given me leave to take some of his men along for an escort. I was thinking of you, Garedd, Peddyc, and Tauryn. Are you game for a wet ride?”

“Gladly, my lord. Your father’s a generous man with his ale, but time hangs heavy in winter.”

“Just that.” Dovyn gave him a grin. “We might have a bit of sport in the spring, though. Here, I’ll tell you the news. I’m riding to Aberwyn to lay claim to some of that empty land up by the Peddroloc. If I can gather the farmers and suchlike, by the gods, why shouldn’t I have land and a dun of my own?”

“Why not?” Cinvan pledged him with his tankard. “Good for you, my lord. I take it your father’s sponsoring you.”

“Just that.” Dovyn’s smile was full of boyish hopes and pride. “He says he’ll back me with the warband if any of the cursed Westfolk try to argue about it. I can fancy myself spreading the Bear clan’s name a little farther west.”

“And your clan’s glory.” Cinvan had a swallow of ale. “May the Bear roam where he will.”

Two days later, when the storm broke, Lord Dovyn and his escort set out for Aberwyn. All along the way, Melaudd’s personal vassals and allies gave them a roof over their heads and ale to drink, which was all that mattered to Cinvan. Dovyn was full of his plans, chattering about them in a most unlordly manner. Since the Old Ones had already fled this part of the country, his new demesne would have to be tilled by free farmers, but there were plenty of younger sons among the Eldidd freemen. Among the commoners, a freeman could divide his property up among his heirs when he died, but who would settle for some part of a farm when he could win a whole one? With a noble lord and his warband to protect them against the Westfolk, they would be glad to move and break new land, which would become theirs in freehold in return for dues. (Back in the Homeland, the noble-born had always divided their property, too, but here in the new and hostile country, with empty land all around them, they preferred to keep holdings strong by passing them intact to one heir.) Lord Dovyn would be a poor lord at first, but his wealthy father was
willing to tide him over with cattle and extra horses until the crops—and the taxes—began coming in.

About halfway through the trip, they stayed with Tieryn Braur of Belglaedd, who greeted Dovyn warmly and made sure his men had shelter in the barracks instead of the stables. At dinner that night, the four Bear riders were given decent seats at a table near the fire and all the meat and mead they wanted, though Cinvan drank little. Up at the table of honor, the young lord was talking with his host and a pretty young woman who seemed to be the tieryn’s daughter. From their long distance away, Garedd watched them with a sentimental smile.

“I think our Dovyn’s picked out the lady of this new demesne.”

“Huh?” Cinvan said. “Who?”

“The daughter, you dolt! Look.”

Obligingly Cinvan looked. Dovyn and the lass were smiling at each other’s every word.

“Now, that warms a man’s heart.” Garedd paused to belch. “What do you wager he had no chance of winning her before? But now he’ll have land to offer.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I am, but so what? It’s just like somewhat in a bard’s tale. He’ll win the land and all for her sake.”

Cinvan ignored him and had another swallow of mead.

Since the men of the Bear were direct personal vassals of the princes of Aberwyn, Dovyn and his escort sheltered in the royal dun itself, a vast many-towered broch in the middle of Aberwyn. At meals, the Bearsmen sat at one side of an enormous great hall that had room enough to seat two hundred and watched their lord, far away at the other side near a hearth made of fine pale stone, all carved with the princely dragons of the rhan. During the day, they had leave to wander round the town, which with its twenty-thousand inhabitants was the biggest place Cinvan had ever seen. Every morning he and Garedd walked down to the harbor, where the prince’s four war galleys rode at anchor and merchant ships came and went. In the afternoon they would go to one of the taverns that the prince’s men recommended and pick up a couple of cheap whores, or sometimes only one to spare the extra cost. As Garedd remarked one day, life in Aberwyn was a cursed sight more amusing
than playing Carnoic in Melaudd’s hall or badgering a kitchen maid into taking a tumble with them out in the hayloft.