Authors: Katharine Kerr
At the edge of the forest, they left the lad with the horses and went alone on foot to see if they could flush a deer. The dogs, a pair of the sleek gray breed called gwertrae, were eager, whining as they sniffed round for tracks and nosed their way through the bracken and fern. Above them rose the ancient oaks, casting a shade cold with a hint of winter coming. Pertyc and Danry had hunted together this way a hundred times, picking their way down narrow trails as silently as the wild animals they sought. Pertyc found himself wishing they were both lads again, too young
to be troubled by obligations and vows and the need to ride to war. When at length they came to a clearing where the sun came down in a long golden shaft onto the leaf-littered ground, Danry whistled sharply to the dogs and brought them back to heel.
“They haven’t even found us a trail yet,” Pertyc said.
Danry turned to him with a faint smile.
“My answer’s still the same,” Pertyc went on. “I won’t ride with you in the spring.”
“As stubborn as a badger, truly. But I came to tell you somewhat, and if you love me, then never say where you heard it.”
“You know I’ll keep silent.”
“Well and good. Then listen, Perro, things are growing nasty. You were wise to bring your lad home. I’m not the only man who had thoughts about your claim to the throne. There are some who’d be glad to put little Draego in your place.”
“They’ll have to kill me to get at the lad.”
“That’s just what they might do.”
Pertyc went cold, standing in the warm shaft of autumn sun.
“He wouldn’t be the first child to have a throne won for him by grown men,” Danry said. “Now listen, I don’t know any more than rumors. No one’s going to speak honestly of such things in front of me, because they know you’re my oath-sworn friend. It would be a long sight easier to stop this talk if you were one of us.”
Pertyc looked away.
“If they come for the lad, how are you going to stop them?” Danry said. “You can’t afford an army. Ah, ye gods, I feel torn apart, Perro.”
“Then maybe you should join me and the king.”
Danry winced, shaking his head in honest pain.
“I can’t. My honor would never let me rest.”
“No more would mine if I joined the rebels. I’ll warn you somewhat. If your allies decide to try for my lad, then get ready to watch me die.”
Danry came close to weeping. At his feet, the gwertroedd whined, dancing a step away, then coming reluctantly back to heel. Far off in the forests, a bird sang, a flood of defiant melody in the shadows.
“And if I die, and you live,” Pertyc said slowly, “I’ll beg you to watch over Adraegyn for me. He’ll need a faithful dog if he’s surrounded by wolves.”
Danry nodded his agreement. Pertyc hesitated, considering saying more, but there was nothing to say. He wanted to have one last day with his friend when they could pretend that things were as they’d always been.
“Let’s get on with the hunt, shall we?”
Danry threw up his hand and sent the eager hounds forward. They coursed slowly through the woods for another hour, neither of them speaking, the dogs growing sullen and frustrated, until at last the lead gwertrae stiffened, tossing up its head. An arrow nocked ready in his bow, Pertyc jogged after until, all at once, they heard a crash and rustle as a deer broke cover, and the hounds shot forward as fast as arrows, yapping after a young doe. An arrow whistled: Danry’s first shot, bouncing off a tree, way too short. Pertyc fell into his stance, raised his bow, and loosed all in one smooth motion. The doe reared up and fell, stumbled a few steps, then fell again as the dogs threw themselves upon her. Drawing his dagger, Pertyc ran for them, but she was already dead, skewered neatly through the heart. Shouting, Pertyc kicked the gwertroedd away. Danry came running, tossing his bow down, and grabbed the whining hounds by the collars.
“Ye gods, man!” Danry said, grinning. “You’ve got the best hand with a bow in all of Eldidd.”
Pertyc merely smiled, thinking that his wife could best him without half trying. While Danry was forcing the dogs to lie down away from the kill, he set his foot against the doe’s neck and pulled the arrow out with both hands. Unbroken, it was worth straightening. As he examined the fletching for splits, he was thinking of his wife, remembering the stories she’d told him of wars long fought and over. His heart began to pound in a sudden gruesome hope. When he looked up to find Danry watching him, he felt as guilty as a caught burglar.
“Perro? I’ll beg you. Please join us.”
“I can’t. I’m too much of a badger, my friend.”
“Ah, by the hells! Well, so be it.”
Their afternoon was over, the last time they could love
each other without the love turning to nightmare. Pertyc turned away before he wept.
Late that night, when the rest of the dun was asleep, Pertyc went up to his study and lit a pair of candles in a silver sconce. As a draft caught the flames, shadows flew back and forth across walls and filled his mind with thoughts of winter, his last winter alive, or so he was counting it. He was determined, though, that his death would cost his enemies a price as high as he could set it.
“And would it be a true dishonor,” he said to one of the stag’s heads on the wall, “to bring longbows back into Eldidd? I’ve always been told so. The question is, do I give the fart of a two-copper pig about the dishonor? Our rebels, my cervine friend, are being a good bit more dishonorable with their wretched plots.”
In the blown shadows the stag’s eyes seemed to move, pondering his logic, but he never did answer. Pertyc found his ancestor’s books, actually a collection of treatises, bound up for the clan in two volumes, stamped with the clan device on the pale leather covers, and massive things, weighing a good fifteen pounds each. He propped the second one up on the lectern, lit more candles, and stood to turn the pages. Touching the book was a comfort all its own, because it gave him palpable contact with his history, all those other Maelwaedd lords, going back a hundred years to the disclaimed prince himself. He doubted, though, that his clan would live after his own coming death. Once a rebel faction proclaimed Adraegyn royal, the High King would have no choice but to kill the boy.
“Ah, stuff the dishonor then!” he said to the stag’s head. “They’re murdering my lad, just by trying to put him on a throne that isn’t his. I’ve got every right to skewer as many of the miserable bastards as I can before the end. We’ll see if I can get those merchants to ride west for me—well, once they get themselves back home, anyway.”
Then he returned to his reading, which gave him a surprise of quite another sort.
In the morning, Danry took his leave, riding out at the head of his escort with a cheery wave of his hand and a jest for his last farewell. Pertyc had the groom saddle him up a horse, then rode straight to Nevyn’s cottage. As he walked through the garden, hot and hushed in the sunlight, Pertyc
had the uneasy feeling that eyes were watching him, but although he peered into every shadow, he saw nothing but turned earth and growing things. When he knocked, Nevyn opened the door and ushered him in with a bow.
“Good morrow, my lord. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Oh, I just wanted a word with you.”
Nevyn smiled, waiting pleasantly. Pertyc glanced round the room, filled with the rich mingled smell of a hundred herbs and roots and barks, bitter and sweet, dry and sharp all diffusing together in the sunlit air.
“I was reading my ancestor’s book last night, you see, and I came across a most curious passage about the dweomer. It was in the book of
Qualities.
Have you read that, by any chance?”
“I have, but it was a very long time ago.”
“No doubt. Let me refresh your memory about this one bit, then. The most noble prince was discussing whether dweomer exists, you see, and he remarks that he once knew a dweomerman.”
“Oh, did he now? I think I begin to recall the passage.”
“No doubt. It would be a great honor to have one’s name recorded in a book for men to remember down the long years.”
Nevyn considered him with a small frown, then suddenly laughed.
“His lordship has quick wits. He’s most worthy of his noble ancestor’s name.”
“By the hells! You mean I’ve guessed right?”
“About what? You don’t really think that I’m the selfsame man that knew Prince Mael, do you?”
“Er, well, it did seem too fantastical to be true …”
“Indeed.” The old man considered for a moment, as if he were debating something in his mind. “Here, if you promise to keep this to yourself, I’ll tell you the truth. The name of Nevyn is a kind of honorary title, passed down from master to apprentice just like a lord passes his title to a son. When one Nevyn grows old and dies, then a new one appears.”
Pertyc felt as embarrassed as a page caught in some lapse of etiquette. Nevyn grinned at him in an oddly sly way, as if the old man had just done something that pleased him mightily.
“And did you come to ask me that, my lord, and naught more? His lordship seems troubled. Is it all because of the dweomer?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, good sir. I have much on my mind these days.”
“No doubt. So must every lord in Eldidd.”
If it weren’t for Danry, Pertyc would have told the entire tale to the dweomerman there and then, but his oath-sworn friend was up to his neck in treason.
“Eldidd is always full of troubles.” Pertyc chose his words carefully. “Few of them come to much.”
“Those few that do can be deadly.”
“True-spoken. That’s why our Mael listed prudence among his noble qualities. It pays to be ready for trouble, even if none comes.”
Nevyn’s eyes seemed to cut through to his soul, as sharp as a sword thrust.
“I’m well aware that you and your son have a tenuous claim to the Eldidd throne.”
“I have no claim at all in any true or holy sense of that word.”
“Qualities such as the true and the holy are held in general disrespect in most parts of the kingdom. That’s a quote from your ancestor’s book. It seems he was farsighted enough to deserve the name of Seer.”
Pertyc rose, pacing restlessly over to the hearth.
“Let me guess what you’re too honorable to tell me,” Nevyn went on. “Every friend you have is in this rebellious muck too deep to get out again, and so you’re being torn to pieces between your loyalty to them and your loyalty to the king.”
“How—ah, ye gods, dweomer indeed!”
“Naught of the sort. Mere logic. Let me ask only one thing: are you going to fight for the king or try to stay neutral?”
“Neutral, if only the gods will allow. And let me ask you the same. Are you a king’s man or neutral in this scrap?”
“I belong to the people of this kingdom, lad, not king nor lord nor usurper. And that’s all the answer you’re going to get from me.”
• • •
The great guildhall of Aberwyn was hot. Every one of the long rank of windows held diamond-paned glass—an enormous luxury but a stifling one as the sun poured through onto the packed crowd. A hundred men sat solemnly on long benches down on the blue and gray slate floor, while up on the dais stood a row of carved chairs filled with the guild officers, all in their ceremonial cloaks of brightly colored checked wool. At one end of this impressive line, the guild’s chief scribe snored shamelessly. In his seat down on the floor, Ganedd wished that he could do the same, but every time he nodded off, his father elbowed him in the ribs. All afternoon, the debate raged over the matter of loaning two thousand silver pieces to the gwerbret of Aberwyn. Although no one ever mentioned why the gwerbret wanted the coin, the knowledge was as cloying as the heat, making it hard to think clearly. A successful rebellion meant freedom from Deverry taxes, freedom from the Deverry guilds, and a certain heady rush of pride in independence. Failure, of course, meant losing the money down to the last copper. After the formal meeting droned to a halt, close to sunset, the debate continued in private inn chambers or over dinner tables in wealthy merchant houses. There, in whispers among a few men at a time, rose the simple question: could the gwerbrets win or not?
“And even if they do win, what next?” Wersyn said. “There’s two great gwerbrets in Eldidd and only one throne. Ye gods, it gives me a headache, thinking about them turning on each other once the first war is won.”
“Well, we’ve got to start thinking about this kind of thing, Da,” Ganedd said. “We’re going to vote on the loan tomorrow.”
“True enough, but you’d better vote the way I tell you when the time comes.”
They were in their luxurious inn chamber, waiting for two of Wersyn’s old friends to join him for another private discussion. Among flagons of Bardek wine a small cold supper was laid out on a linen-covered table.
“If I’m voting the way you say, can I go down to the tavern room tonight? No need for me to listen, is there, if you’re going to make up my mind for me.”
“You nasty little cub.” Wersyn said it without real rancor. “Just don’t come in staggering drunk until my guests
have gone. Ye gods! Sometimes I wonder where I got a son like you. Wanting to go to sea! Drinking! Humph!”
Since they were staying in an expensive inn, the tavern room was big and clean, with glass lanterns hanging every few feet along the whitewashed walls, but all the serving girls were respectable and watched over by a paternal tavernman who seemed determined to keep them that way. Down in one corner, out of the way near the kitchen door, Ganedd found Maer, drinking ale alone and doing his best to behave himself.
“Aren’t you going to discuss grave affairs of state with your da and his friends?”
“I’m not. They won’t listen to me, and it drives me half mad. This scheme is daft, Maer. They keep talking about how many riders the rebels can raise when what they need to be talking about is ships.”
“Huh? What have ships got to do with it?”
“Not you, too! Look, as the king marches south from Dun Deverry to Cerrmor, what does he find along the way? Loyal vassals, that’s what, with nice fat demesnes that support big warbands. Then when he gets to Cerrmor, what does he find?”
“Ships.” Maer sat up straight and began thinking. “Ships to deliver all those men to Abernaudd and Aberwyn in about half the time they could ride.”