Authors: Katharine Kerr
“Decent of you. How can I advise you when I don’t know what’s causing the trouble? Suppose you were ill, and
you refused to tell me where it hurt. How could I prescribe the right medicinals?”
Pertyc hesitated, staring into empty air.
“Well, the trouble won’t come till spring, most like.” The lord spoke slowly at first, then with a rush of words. “Most of the rebels are rallying around one claimant, Cawaryn of Elrydd, but there are those who’d start a second faction because they don’t trust the men behind Cawaryn. This faction wanted to put me forward as a claimant, but I refused. Naught’s been said outright, mind, but I’ll wager we can both guess what they’re thinking. Kill the Maelwaedd, and we can take his son for a candidate.”
“Of all the stupid … ! Ye gods, but I should have known! That’s Deverry men for you, so busy fighting the battles among themselves that their enemies march in and win the wars. I see you have Mael’s old copy of the
Annals of the Dawntime
here. Have you read the tales of Gwersingetoric and the great Gwindec?”
“About how their own allies betrayed them, and so the cursed Rhwmanes drove King Bran and our ancestors to the Western Isles? No doubt this rebellion is as doomed as the one Gwindec led. Ye gods, my poor Danry! I—” He caught himself, wincing at his slip.
“So. Tieryn Cernmeton is the sworn friend, is he? Does he love you enough to send you warnings?”
“He does, and he has, because he’s doing what he can to bring the second faction over to Cawaryn so they’ll leave me alone. He told me they’re installing the new king as soon as they can. He has great hopes that everyone will support the lad once the priests have worked their ritual and all. I keep having doubts, myself.”
“Wise of you. Very well; I know enough to get on with. I’ll stop putting hot irons to your honor. For a while, anyway.”
That evening, Nevyn enlisted Aderyn’s help to guard his body while he went scrying in the body of light—a dangerous business, but he had no choice; since he’d never seen any of these men in the flesh before, he couldn’t simply scry them out through a fire or other such focus. They went into his bedchamber, which was pleasantly warm from the small charcoal stove in the corner. Nevyn lay flat on his back on the hard straw mattress while Aderyn sat cross-legged on
the floor nearby. The little room was silent, dark except for the faint reddish glow from the coals. At this time of day, there was little chance that one of the villagers would come knocking, but Aderyn was there to fend them off if they did.
“Where will you go?” Aderyn said.
“Aberwyn for starters.”
Nevyn folded his arms across his chest, shut his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing. Quickly his body of light came, a simple man shape, built of the blue light, bound to him by a silver cord. He transferred over, hearing a rushy click as his consciousness took root, and opened his astral eyes. When he looked at Aderyn, he saw his friend’s body only dimly, like a wick in a candle flame, obscured by the blaze of his gold-colored aura.
Slowly Nevyn let himself drift up to the ceiling, then brought his will to bear on a thought of the coast road. Abruptly he was outside, hovering in the blue etheric light above the cliffs. Across the beach, the ocean was a silver and blue turmoil of elemental force, surging and boiling in vast currents, swarming with Wildfolk and spirits of all types. Although the sand itself, and the stone and dirt cliff faces, appeared black and dead, they were dotted here and there with the reddish auras of the clumps of weed and grass caught in cracks and crannies. The meadows at the clifftop glowed a dull orange, streaked by the dead road. As Nevyn rose higher, the Wildfolk clustered round him, some in the form of winks and flashes of refracted light; others, as pulses of glow, bright-colored as jewels. When he glanced over his etheric equivalent of a shoulder, he saw the silver cord stretching behind him and vanishing into mist.
With the Wildfolk swarming after, Nevyn rushed in long leaps of thought over the sleeping countryside until he came to Aberwyn. Far below him lay the town, a haphazard scattering of round dead shapes—the houses—lit by the occasional patch of reddish vegetable aura. Here and there some human or animal aura wandered through the dark streets like a mobile candle flame. Wreathed and misted in a veil of elemental force, the dangerous river ran like a streak of cold fire down the middle. Nevyn drifted over the city wall, but he was careful to avoid the river’s surge as he flew to the gwerbret’s dun.
Since he’d only been inside this dun once, and that nearly seventy years ago, he was lost at first until a small garden caught his attention. In the midst of the bright auras of well-tended plants stood a fountain in the shape of a dragon and a hippogriff, illuminated by the etheric glow of the water playing over them. He focused down until it seemed that he hovered only a few inches off the grass. Nearby was the jutting round wall of the main tower. Candlelight and firelight, forming pale reflections in the overall etheric glow, flickered out of the windows in such profusion that Nevyn could assume the great hall lay inside. He could also pick up a welter of ancient emotions: blood-lust, rage, the exhilaration of war and the stink of treachery, all lingering as faint, nearly unreadable traces in the blue light.
He walked right through the wall and found himself standing, or rather floating, on the dais at the honor end of the great hall. Gwerbret Gatryc was dining with his lady and an honored guest, a lord whom Nevyn didn’t recognize, a brown-haired fellow with prominent front teeth. The currents of feeling emanating from them were as tangled and sharp as a hedge of thorns, but one thing was clear: although they hated each other, they needed each other. They spoke only of trivial things for a few moments; then by mutual agreement left the table and went upstairs, calling for a page to follow them with mead and goblets.
Nevyn floated right along after them to a small chamber hung with tapestries, as dull and dead as painted parchment to the astral sight. Gatryc and his guest sat in carved chairs by a small fire, took the mead from the page, and sent the boy away. In this plane, the silver goblets, bathed in the bluish aura of the moon-metal, seemed as alive as the hands which held them. Carefully Nevyn focused his consciousness down one degree, until the chamber barely glowed with the etheric light and he could, with great effort, discern their thoughts.
“That’s all very well for now,” the guest was saying. “But how will you feel when Mainoic is controlling the throne?”
“That will be the time to make our move. Listen, Leomyr, a prize like this is worth waiting for.”
“True-spoken, Your Grace. But if we don’t advance the Maelwaedd claim now, men might have grave doubts when
we do. And why did you swear to Cawaryn, they’ll say, if you never believed him a king?”
Gatryc considered, rolling his goblet between the palms of his hands.
“True-spoken. It’s a vexed situation, truly. We don’t have enough men behind us to make Adraegyn king by force. That’s why Danry was so important.”
“I know. But maybe we should have the lad now, for safekeeping, shall we say?”
“If we move on Pertyc Maelwaedd, we might as well refuse to swear to Cawaryn and be done with it. Everyone will know why we’re doing it.”
“I see naught wrong with crushing the only king’s man in our territory before the war comes. He’s an enemy at our flank, for all his supposed neutrality.”
“Perhaps.” Gatryc had a swallow of mead. “But with ten men or whatever it is he’s got, no one’s going to believe he’s a dangerous threat to the rebellion. And then there’s Danry. And his hundred and twenty men. And his allies.”
Leomyr considered.
“Well, Your Grace,” Leomyr said at last, “you’re exactly right about one thing: it’s too soon to move, one way or another. I only want to keep these questions alive in your mind. When it comes time for the new king to be proclaimed, we’ll have to sniff around and see what we can pick up. I think a few more lords may join us, once they see Yvmur all puffed up and prancing round the king.”
Nevyn had heard enough. He thought himself outside, flew over the dun walls, and headed home. On the morrow, he left Aderyn at the cottage and rode out to the archery ground, where he found Lord Pertyc practicing with his men.
“News for you, my lord,” Nevyn said. “Let’s walk a bit away, shall we?”
Pertyc followed him into the trees, where the fog hung in clammy gray festoons from the branches.
“Tell me somewhat, my lord. What do you know of an Eldidd peer named Leomyr?”
“Tieryn Dun Gwerbyn? Why do you ask?”
“Do you think him a friend that needs protecting? I’ll swear to you that he’s the worst enemy you have.”
Pertyc went a little pale, staring at him like a child who fears a beating.
“How do you know that?”
“Ways of my own. Do you honor him?”
“Not in the least. Danry warned me about him, you see. I’m just cursed surprised you know, too.”
“And did Danry tell you that Leomyr’s as close as two cows in a chilly field with the gwerbret of Aberwyn?”
“He only hinted about it. He didn’t know for sure.”
“I do know. Listen, if either of those two ride your way, or if they send you messages, don’t believe a word they say. And send Maer down to the village to tell me straightaway, will you?”
Over the next week Nevyn spent many a long and dangerous night traveling through the etheric until he knew the names and images of the men he needed to watch. From then on, he could scry more safely in the fire. He saw Leomyr busy himself with his demesne and his family, as if factions were the farthest thing from his mind despite the string of messengers coming and going between him, his allies, and Gwerbret Aberwyn. He overheard Gatryc exchange weaseling words with men loyal to Cawaryn. He saw Cawaryn himself and pitied the lad, pushed by his ambitious uncle into danger. Even more to the point, he saw Yvmur consulting with priests of Bel, pondering the calendar and the omens as they discussed the most favorable day to proclaim the new king, that crucial day which would mark not only the beginning of Cawaryn’s reign but of open rebellion.
Hatred, however, is a very poor reason to start a war, for the simple reason that it makes a man blind to his enemy’s good qualities. The Eldidd lords were so intent on thinking King Aeryc a dishonorable usurper that they forgot he was no fool. For years he’d seen trouble coming in that distant province, and he had spies there, paid in good solid coin to send him what news there was to know. Even as Yvmur and the priests chose a night for pronouncing Cawaryn king, one of those spies was receiving his pay, up in Dun Deverry, for some very interesting news.
• • •
Although a fire of massive logs burned in the hearth, it was cold at the window, an exhalation of chill damp from the stone walls and an icy breath from the glass panes. Outside the royal palace in Dun Deverry, the first snow lay scattered on dead brown grass. The king was restless, pacing idly back and forth from window to hearth. A handsome man, with striking green eyes, Aeryc stood over six feet tall, but he looked even taller thanks to his mane of stiff pale hair, bleached with lime and combed straight back in the Dawntime fashion. Since he was on his feet, Councillor Melyr was forced to stand, too, but the old man kept close to the fire. His lean face was drawn with worry—reasonably enough, Aeryc thought, since it was a dangerous point that they were discussing.
“We’re simply sick of waiting,” Aeryc said. “If the king is going to tolerate rebellion, then the king deserves rebellion.”
“No doubt, my liege, but does the king truly think he should take the field himself?”
“We have yet to make up our mind on this point.”
Out of pity for the councillor’s age, Aeryc sat down. With a grateful sigh, Melyr sank into a chair opposite.
“But if we ride to Eldidd, then we must ride soon,” Aeryc went on. “Hence our haste.”
“Just so, my liege. The roads will be bad soon.”
“Just that.” Aeryc considered, too troubled to keep up the proper formalities. “Cursed if I’ll let this pack of Eldidd dogs enthrone their usurper without any trouble. They’ll all be in Abernaudd with their warbands, then, anyway.”
“If this information you’ve received is accurate.”
“Why should Gurcyn lie? He’s been loyal to me—or to my coin, more like—for years. He gathered news from all over the province, to say naught of what he saw with his own eyes. The cursed gall of those whoreson merchants! Celebrating this piss-poor excuse of a lad’s wedding with a royal cauldron.”
When in sheer rage Aeryc got up from his chair, creaking at the joints, Melyr rose to join him.
“But, my liege, will a spy’s word be sufficient proof of treason in the eyes of the rest of the kingdom? Some of the Eldidd lords may have individual alliances in the western
parts of Deverry. A king whom men secretly call unjust is a king with many troubles on his hands.”
“True-spoken. From the point of view of war, it would be better to fall on them straightaway and wipe them out one at a time. But from the point of view of rulership, you’re right. It’s better to wait. But I see naught wrong with being close enough to march as soon as this impious farce of a ceremony is done with. Cerrmor’s never snowbound. I intend to take an army down while the roads are still clear. Then we can take ship for Eldidd when the time comes.”
“A brilliant stroke, my liege. There remains the question of whether the king himself will ride with his men. It seems unnecessary to me. I have every faith that your captains honor you enough to fight as bravely for your sake as they would with you at their head.”
“Of course. So what? I’m going, and that’s that. I want to grind their faces in the mire myself. The gall of this piss-proud whoreson excuse for a nobility! Didn’t they think I’d be keeping an eye on them? I—” Aeryc stopped in mid-tirade and grinned.
“My liege?”
“Somewhat just occurred to me. Since they don’t seem to think in terms of spies, I’ll wager they don’t have any of their own. How unfair of me, to keep all the spies to myself! I think I’d best send them one with some special information, all nicely brewed—like a purgative.”